An Ideal To Fight For
by Jeremy
Summary: As Yang Wen-li reluctantly battles the forces of the Galactic Empire, a cancer within the Free Planets Alliance will cause a change that will affect the life of the hero and divert the flow of history.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: This story has been in my mind for a while, about doing an ATL based on the story of Legend of the Galactic Heroes. **

**However, although this story does have a moment wheN things change drastically from the OTL, the change won't be sudden. Things will change first very slowly, so don't be worried if some scenes sound like the series – that's the point.**

**On another note, this story will largely be told from a Free Planets Alliance point of view. Although some people from the Galactic Empire will make it in there as POV characters, it might take a while, and they'll not be as central to the plot as the Alliance characters.**

**As always, LOGH belongs to Yoshiki Tanaka.**

**Enjoy!**

**LEGEND OF THE GALACTIC HEROES**

**AN IDEAL TO FIGHT FOR**

**Prologue**

_There were few things that the Imperial and Alliance historians truly agreed on about the last three centuries of human history, from the launching of the Ion Fazekath to the short-lived Occupation of El Facil. _

_Centuries of different cultural basics and an increasing disdain for the other side helped it. A psychological need to make the nation they worked for and to varying degrees believed in cemented it._

_The history of the Sagittarius Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy was fundamentally different. However, there were some points on which the schools of thoughts on both sides could find consensus despite the entrenched disdain and distrust of the other's objectivity. Namely, that if not for Arle Heinessen's uprising and flight, it would currently not be anything of note._

_This came from social and economic realities. Namely, that in the semi-feudal epoch that the Galactic Empire had fostered, the High Nobility wished to remain as close as possible to the key center of power. And that power, for the last half millennia, was the Valhalla Starzone, and most importantly the imperial capitol world of Odin._

_Imperials likely would have found the two corridors, but passing through them and creating colonies would have been cost-prohibitive at best. Some surmise that a few younger and more reckless nobles would have crafted small fiefs, but these would have been seen as the backwater of backwaters, a subject of derision in the conservative and traditions-bound Imperial Court._

_Barlat Starzone might have eventually been discovered, and the fourth planet of its main system would have certainly been considered quite a find. After all, the planet was not only habitable, but rich in resources and having one of the closest natural ecosystems to that of the Earth Standard, necessitating little in the way of terraforming. _

_The planet, however, would have been very far from the center of imperial power, and most historians muse that it would have likely become an agricultural center with little industry, or perhaps a sort of resort planet for the nobility who wished to go far away from the hustle, bustle and inherent dangers of the core imperial worlds._

_It would have been insignificant, a footnote, an obscure name in the Imperial Navigation Database. _

_However, one group of refugees changed that fate._

_The Exodus Fleet, as Alliance citizens now called it and which even Imperial scholars increasingly named it, had braved the unknown reaches of space. It had done so largely out of fear of pursuit, as being caught would have been death or worse. That knowledge pushed them to get as far away from the centers of imperial power, so far away that the Empire's repressive apparatus wouldn't find them._

_To a people who had suffered half a century of flight, punctuated by loss and accidents and other strife, the fourth planet of the Barlat System was nothing short of a metaphorical godsend. Here, they could live and thrive. And so they named the planet Heinessen after their initial leader, and claimed the planet for their own. And from there, they proclaimed themselves the Free Planets Alliance._

_The uncanny energy and dedication – some called it a form of controlled desperation - of the original settlers made Heinessen the fastest growing world that mankind had ever seen, enough that by the time the Alliance and the Empire finally encountered each other over eleven decades after initial landfall, it was able to field a military force which dealt the Imperial Fleet its first complete defeat in centuries._

_The war came largely out of the fact that the Empire simply couldn't acknowledge any other nation but itself. It alone, Imperials said, had been there for humankind when the Galactic Federation had failed. It alone knew how to best serve the interests of humanity. Only House Goldenbaum could claim rulership over it. Any who would strike out on its own was an affront to the strength of the empire, and thus in open rebellion against it._

_Even reeling from the unprecedented defeat, the Empire refused to acknowledge the Alliance. The humans within the Sagittarius Arm were rebels, and those who fled to it following the initial defeat at the Battle of Dagon were deemed cowards and turncoats._

_Hopes of coexistence were dashed, and the two nations entered a strange, continuous type of warfare. Years of conflict pitted the generally attacking Imperial forces against the generally defending Alliance units, each battle costing enormous numbers of ships and hardware and horrendous costs of life._

_Years became decades, and yet neither side showed any willingness in giving up. The smaller Alliance eventually found itself hard-put in covering the costs of its ever-increasing war machine, while corrupt nobles and merchants were willing to sell technology and information to its enemy for outrageous prices. _

_These elements of greed and despair were what gave birth to the Phezzan Dominion, situated in one of the two space corridors linking the Orion and Sagittarius Arms. A political and economic go-between that was an Imperial world only on paper, Phezzan soon monopolized much of the trade between the Empire and the Alliance and became the wealthiest known world, and a powerful – if secondary – force in mankind's affairs._

_In the one hundred and fifty-five years since war was declared between the two enemy nations, their forces had clashed no less than three hundred and thirty-two times. Hundreds of thousands of ships were lost. Hundreds of millions of lives were lost. Star systems became floating graveyards. And yet neither side budged, and the killing continued. All in the name of what had become stubborn patriotism and dogmatism on both sides._

_As with all stalemates, however, one side eventually has to give. History has shown that such is the way of all wars: none are eternal. Another point that Alliance and Imperial scholars agreed on._

_For the past five years, Alliance efforts in the war had met with general failures. Their attacks were repulsed, and their defensive efforts had been costly both in terms of ships and manpower. Military spending, already in the red, was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain._

_The civilian population also caught on to the fact that their side was now clearly on the losing side of a war they couldn't afford. A general desire for the war to end grew stronger and a few voices were starting to wonder if the Free Planets Alliance couldn't find a way to negotiate a conditional surrender to the Galactic Empire._

_The military and civilian leaders of the Alliance tried their best to assuage public fears, but increasing dogmatism and the presence of extremist groups that the government could not – or would not – stop had jaded the population. The social problems continued._

_The Alliance needed a victory – any victory – to regain some momentum._

_It was then that intelligence came down from the Phezzan Dominion: the Empire was on the move again with a relatively large fleet. It was led by a young upstart named Reinhard von Lohengramm, who had until recently had the family name of von Musel. It had been due to him that the latest battle with the Empire had been lost._

_A fluke, nothing more, many Alliance admirals said. That intelligence was, they and their civilian leaders agreed, exactly what was needed. They'd send a far larger fleet against the youngster, and destroy him. That way, some confidently proclaimed, they'd have two rewards. Firstly, their coveted victory. Secondly, the life of a brat who had dared make fools out of them all. It was perfect._

_And so the Free Planets Alliance Star Fleet mustered again, almost universally confident that this battle, this encounter would break the run of bad luck they'd been having. And if a few thought differently, or urged caution, well, there were naysayers everywhere._

_After all, Reinhard von Lohengramm was likely nothing but a nobility-favoured child who was playing at warfare, his achievements exaggerated or due to luck. Once he would fight experienced fleet commanders who could focus entirely on him, some said, he'd crumble easily._

_This was the prevalent feeling within the Alliance military._

_They would shortly come to regret their own overconfidence._

* * *

**December 19, Universal Calendar Year 795**

** Edwards Space Port, Heinessen**

There was absolutely no good in the military dispatch he was going to take part of. Of that, Yang Wen-li was certain. It wasn't just his personal inclinations talking, although that helped. No, the entire operation reeked of nothing but propaganda.

Everywhere he looked just confirmed that opinion. The Edwards port was sometimes used for returning troops, and he supposed those returning deserved it to an extent. They had just been through another battle, had likely lost friends. Couldn't they have some encouragements from loved ones, succour from friends and family, to help them through the trauma of the fight?

They did. Yang didn't mind it for that reason. But usually, departures were affected through the official and more efficient shuttle launch facilities located near the Strategic Planning Center. Dispatches were generally more sober affairs then returns.

But not this time. This time, Yang felt as if he was in the midst of a holiday celebration. Christmas come early, as it were.

Military bands were playing the national anthem and other nationally-applicable tunes. Stands filled with people proudly showed flags of the Alliance, as well as messages promising heroism and glory to all who would defend the motherland.

There was confetti thrown. There was glitter here and there. Balloons were given to adults and especially children who had come. And throughout the stands were people coming and going, selling everything from popcorn to hotdogs. There was a festive feeling pretty much all around. All that was missing were clowns and mimes. All that clashed with that were the military personnel milling around, saying goodbye to parents, family, siblings or lovers in ways that often had no hint of amusement in it.

It was ridiculous to the extreme. Since when had the military become some kind of circus act?

"It's really rude to space out, Commodore!" a young voice said in a chiding tone, and Yang's slightly brooding reverie was shattered as his eyes focused away from the fanfare and back to the teenager in front of him, standing right on the other side of the waist-high steel barrier separating civilian and military personnel.

Julian Mintz looked up at him with slightly exasperated eyes that looked far more mature than his nearly-fourteen years of age. Of clear Caucasian descent, he had blonde hair, large brown eyes that seemed to scream of decisive intellect, and a general fair countenance that Yang was sure was one day going to make the youngster quite a hit with the ladies.

It wasn't something Yang had much experience in. Although not ugly by any stretch of the imagination, his blue-eyed, black haired face – which had pretty much nothing Asian in it, despite his name, the looks came from a mother he had pretty much only known in pictures and stories – were contained on top of a fit body that was average in pretty much everything. That and his bookish nature had made him anything but a hit within female circles.

Well, with but one significant exception, that is.

Once Julian saw that his attention had returned, the teenager sighed in what seemed to be slight frustration. At twenty-eight, the youngest Commodore in recent Alliance history felt he was being scolded. It was a feeling he had gotten used to over the nearly two years since he'd officially adopted Mintz as his ward. The blond teen was a natural mother hen.

He felt more than he saw the knowing, amused looks that his two oldest friends were shooting him as they surveyed the surreal scene. But Julian wasn't finished.

"Commodore, while you're at the front, please make sure you eat properly," The teen fairly admonished, smiling benevolently, "Because even if you're busy, it's useless if you don't eat regularly."

Yang wondered how many mothers and wives were saying very similar words at the moment to young soldiers. Still, he'd had far stranger orders thrown his way, so he did what he was good at when something harmless bothered him: he shrugged it off.

"It's okay. I won't work that hard anyway this time." Because admiral Paeta wouldn't listen, but he kept that last part to himself as he smiled at his ward wryly. The boy seemed unconvinced. Yang couldn't blame him. He _did_ then to forget food at times.

"Jean-Robert…" A gentle, female voice started haltingly next to him, and Yang looked to his right despite himself. Right at the one exception in the desert that had been Yang Wen-li's love life. A beautiful woman his age, with short blonde hair and greenish-blue eyes, stood looking at an equally blond man whose optimistic brown eyes always seemed to look for the bright side of things.

Her name was Jessica Edwards, and he had loved her since the first day he had seen her. He was Jean-Paul Lapp, his oldest friend who had been a much-needed support at the Officer's Academy. He loved her as well and, knowing his feelings, had asked for Yang's blessing to marry her.

No matter how much that had hurt, it had never occurred to Yang to refuse. Lapp was by far the more stable man, the one who could make her happy. So he looked at the two as they stared at each other lovingly, and if his heart ached, he kept it to himself, and always would.

Lapp stared at her with a smile before, as usual, working to alleviate the sorrow of the moment. "Please don't make that kind of face," He said gently, putting his hand on her shoulder as if to give her support. Yang grinned at that. "And don't worry. This time, it's an easy victory."

The lieutenant-commander's optimistic face turned towards the black-haired commodore's. "Right, Yang?"

Caught flat-footed, Yang agreed, and hoped the slight hesitation in his tone didn't betray his doubts. _Not the place, and not the time, Wen-li,_ he told himself. He felt Julian shift towards him, and knew that the young man, at least, wasn't duped.

Jessica and Lapp exchanged a few more pleasantries, centered on him definitely coming back and them going to hunt for a house for them to live together once they married. Then he kissed her.

For the briefest of moment, she hesitated, and looked at Yang. He smiled, nodded, and looked away peacefully, closing his eyes and locking away whatever pain the sight had caused. He would never be selfish, not towards those two.

A few moments later, the two made their good-byes. Before they could get far, Jessica's voice stopped them, calling their names. They turned.

"You both come back in one piece, alright?" She said, and they both agreed. They left together, walking towards the enormous military shuttles which would carry them and the other soldiers to their ships in orbit of Heinessen.

As they walked, Yang couldn't help but reflect on how almost everyone was thinking this would be an easy victory, and how that sort of certainty had a tendency to breed dangerous overconfidence. The carnival-like atmosphere only made it more apparent.

Clearly, that train of thought showed on his face, as Lapp cut into it. "What's the matter, Yang? Worried about something?"

Another officer might have been slightly put off at seeing a lieutenant-commander talking to a commodore in such a familiar way, but Yang had never cared much about military protocol, or the military period. He certainly wasn't going to let that come between him and Lapp, and he was glad that Lapp, for his part, didn't resent Yang's career jumping ahead of his.

With Jessica and Julian out of earshot, Yang thus opened up a bit.

"Even with double the numbers that the enemy has, it doesn't mean we can't make a mistake," He explained, "And then, if we make a big mistake…"

He left the thought unfinished, but Lapp, of course, had followed it up quickly. His tone was more serious now, cognizant of the danger. "If that happens, no guarantees that we'll win easily."

"Right."

_That's if we win at all_, Yang thought, but refused to voice it. He was certain that Lapp had thought the same thing, anyway. That was the sort of thing that had to remain unspoken.

As was his style, Lapp quickly covered the moment with his unflagging optimism. "Hey, if the Hero of El Facil's with us, its unavoidable that we will!" He said cheerfully, using the moniker that Yang had been known as for seven years, and slapping him in the back, laughing. "It'll be fine, just fine!"

And Yang smiled despite his doubts. Maybe Lapp was right. Maybe Reinhard von Lohengramm wouldn't be the problem Yang feared he might be. He'd been wrong before. It was just that he was much more often _right _that prevented him from putting his mind to rest on the matter.

They strolled firmly for the shuttles, heading for two which had different destinations. Yang's would go for the flagship of the Second Fleet, the _Patrocles_, while Lapp's would go to the _Pergammon_, flagship of the Sixth Fleet. Yang's shuttle being the closest in their trajectory, they walked in easy silence towards it.

The whole situation was a small miracle to Yang. Although they had known each other for over twelve years, and been friends nearly that long, distance, time and jealousy had destroyed friendships all too often. And although they had grown somewhat more distant over the years as their duties denied them much time to catch up, no resentment had cropped up.

Lapp had never resented the fact that he had been generally sent to backwater posts, which had made him a mere lieutenant-commander despite his great talents. All the while Yang had found himself in postings where his contributions – and, to Yang, an absurd amount of luck – had made him a hero to the Alliance, a Commodore in his twenties, and if things continued likely a Rear Admiral by thirty.

And Yang, for his part, had never begrudged Lapp becoming more important in Jessica's life than he was, and eventually becoming her love, and her fiancé. The man was simply more suited to making her happy, and getting angry over something like that was completely alien to Yang's mind. Pain he did feel, but never bitterness.

They stopped in front of the mechanical stairs which would take Yang into the gargantuan shuttle, and paused there for a moment. Lapp turned towards him and stretched out a friendly hand.

"Well, even if it somehow goes south, we're returning from this alive." He said with utter conviction. There was no way to counter that sort of optimism. Yang certainly didn't have the words, or the will, for it.

So he grasped his friend's hand and shook it firmly. "Right." He said, with as much conviction he could muster. They nodded, and with a last wave of his hand, Lapp turned away and started to jog to his shuttle, still some distance away.

Yang watched him a moment, then went on the stairs, letting them carry him up. Lapp's upbeat words to Jessica played in his mind. _This time, it's an easy victory_. _Right, Yang?_

Part of him wanted that to be true. But the tactician in him, the historian in him, both remembered that risk-taking, aggressive, but creative white imperial ship, and what it had done at the Fourth Battle of Tiamat just a few month ago.

He simply couldn't be sure.

And he was certain Lapp, for all of his optimism, wasn't either.

* * *

**December 19, Universal Calendar Year 795**

** Edwards Space Port** **Outskirts**

Watching the departure of the shuttle with the best view possible was something that he had always had a knack for doing. It had taken him years to find that this park, built right at the periphery of the main grounds, offered the best angle from which to look at it.

Trees, artistic flower beds, and carefully manicured grounds created the impression of calm. A stream with a wooden bridge with cobbled ways snaking through it, as well as two large fountains, only made the impression of a peaceful place even more all-permeating. It was far away from the noise, close enough to the action.

From where he sat, he clearly saw shuttles taking off, one after the other. Dozens of shuttles leaving streaks of white as they climbed up and away. As a youth, the sight had fairly impressed him, and even now, it still gave off a good vibe even as the poison did its job on his body.

It was a good place as any to die in. The people who went about the park, of course, would never understand what happened to him. It would be a shocking moment, once some realized, but they would get over.

Someone walked and sat in the spot on the bench next to him. Others had done it before, and generally he kept himself looking at the sky and would only answer if the other occupant made a comment.

But not this time. He had recognized the gait easily enough, knew exactly who it was who was now looking pretty much at the same spot he was. He was only surprised it hadn't occurred well before. Consequently, he spoke first. His body was already feeling the drowsiness. He didn't have that long left.

"Twenty-two point ninety-five percent of the Star Fleet," he said, as if the other man wasn't just as acutely aware of the numbers. "That's what we're sending this time."

"The Stanford administration is working hard to look good, that's all," Came the easy, even reply. Not a hint of the anger many of the others likely felt. A very _zen_ kind of man. "Politicians using their toys to get re-elected, nothing more to it."

"Think we'll win this one?"

"I don't know, and I couldn't care less. This one is a freebie we'll work with no matter what happens." A moment of silence, and then his colleague subtly shifted away from the present. "You really pulled a fast one. Some of the higher-ups are fairly… dismayed."

_Now there was one clear understatement_, he told himself. The higher-ups were likely out for blood. After all, the man he was sitting with was one of their very best hounds.

"Too late for that. I won't give them the satisfaction." He mused. The drowsiness was getting worse. This thing he'd taken was quite effective.

"I noticed that. Bleak Dreamer poison, from the looks of it. Must have cost a fortune, that one."

"I've got the cash to spare. Let me tell you something: no matter how idiotic the Imperial nobility is, they've got one thing going for them: they know their poisons."

No response to that, which he took as silent agreement. He was getting so… tired. It'd be over soon.

"All because of what happened to your sister at Tiamat. Stolen information, betraying the cause." There was restrained heat in that last comment, and that made what little fight was left in him lash right back.

"They got her there as a warning. They shouldn't have done it."

It all came down to his sister. The only family he had left, one who had no idea what they had been up to for generations. Too idealistic. So idealistic, in fact, that she'd gone and joined the military despite being discouraged from the course of action. She had defiantly gone to the Academy, had fought the great hesitations of the male-dominated officer corps to promote women to field duty.

And she had done well. Promoted to captain of a battleship, no less. He'd helped her slightly there. A minor nudge, but one that had been deemed unforgivable. So they'd made a point.

And, in retaliation, he had decided to make his own.

"My vision's going out of focus," he noted. He didn't think dying would be so…trivial. It really was darn good poison there, worth its price. "If you have any questions left, now's the time."

"You gave the data away, didn't you." It certainly wasn't a question.

He smiled as his vision became increasingly blurry, and nodded. "No point in all this if I didn't, right?"

"At a place where there'd be too many people to screen. Not bad. But we'll find him, whoever it is."

"Maybe. Good luck with that."

"It's not the first time we've had something like this. The House will overcome your act of spite as it did everything else."

He chuckled at that even as his eyes forcibly closed. He felt the arrogance of centuries of secrets and lies in that last sentence. He'd once sounded exactly like that. But he also knew, because of that fact, that the House wasn't as invincible at it seemed. One way or another, he was going to make things difficult for the elders for a while.

"Right. Until then, enjoy the panic." He said, and he drifted into one last, dreamless sleep, even as around him, people cheered at yet another show of force by their military.

* * *

_On December twenty-second, 795 UC, the Free Planets Alliance Star Fleet sent a powerful force made up of three fleets against Reinhard von Lohengramm. It was seen then as a political move more than a battle proper. An easy victory, and great political and social benefits for both the government and the military._

_Nobody then could have known that the following battle would start a chain of events which would irrevocably change the status quo so far maintained by the two sides._


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Failed Plans**

_ Forty thousand Alliance ships had been mustered to counter the foray of an Imperial fleet half that size. In any straight fight, having twice the numbers had been enough to guarantee victory, if not an easy one. The officers and soldiers of the three separate Alliance commands were certain that luck and fate was now on their side._

_ But it wasn't enough to win. They had to make it look good so that the people back home could sell it, encourage the people into continued support of the war effort. As such, tactical brainstorming decided to use the basics of the victory which had allowed the Alliance to endure at the beginning of the war: the Battle of Dagon._

_ There, the legendary Lin Pao, despite having half the fleet size of the enemy, used knowledge of the Dagon Starzone and general inexperience on the part of the Imperials of the time to engineer a three-pronged assault. Three separate fleet groups had struck in unison, destroying the enemy in a fantastic siege. The enemy fleet had been all but obliterated._

_ Although the Astarte Starzone, where the two fleets were most likely to meet, didn't have quite as much cosmic radiation and other space mayhem to fool sensors to the extent Dagon had, the numerical difference, some said, would make up for the difference. _

_ The Second Fleet with fifteen thousand ships, the Fourth Fleet with twelve thousand, and the Sixth Fleet with thirteen thousand ships would cruise to three separate marshalling points, surround the enemy, and charge in._

_ The Imperial Fleet had always been statistically slow at organizing its troops, even more the few times when they had actually been outnumbered. Moreover, the fleet commander was an inexperienced admiral of twenty years of age, who'd likely have trouble consolidating his own command. Admirals Moore, Paeta and Pastoll, and most of their immediate commanders were confident that they would easily achieve the success they yearned for._

_ With the data they had been given, officers guessed where and when the Imperial Fleet would emerge, leaving themselves some room to react if it was slightly early, late, or didn't completely occupy the designated sector that most computations thought it would. _

_ Everything was set, calculated, perfected. All the three predators needed was to sight their prey and move in for the kill._

_ And then, for the still-moving Fourth Fleet, the plan was suddenly shattered in the most frightening of ways._

_ Far from any of the sectors that even the most cautious of the Fourth Fleet's analysts had assumed it would show, the Imperial fleet under the new High Admiral Lohengramm slammed into the Alliance forces with well-calculated fury._

_ Vice admiral Pastoll and his staff could only stare in shock as the enemy approached well before their forces were ready to fight them. Decades of set battle-plans and traditional tactical fleet movements made the Imperial angle and timing so unusual that the command staff found itself paralyzed._

_ Before anyone could come up with any sort of the counter to the newly-introduced combat elements, the Imperial fleet opened fire on its enemy in a relentless barrage of neutron beam._

* * *

**January 1, Universal Calendar Year 796 **

**Alliance Squadron Flagship 'Airget Lahm', Astarte Starzone**

'Imperial fleet detected in front of us. Charging in at full speed!'

Even though that went completely contrary to the plans that Vice Admiral Pastoll had briefed the senior staff about, no surprise registered on commodore Fischer's moustached face. Coming down from a long line of cultural Englishmen – it was too fuzzy now to be assured of such a line genetically – his upbringing and natural propensity towards calm made him all but unflappable when faced with a dangerous situation.

He merely sat up a bit straighter as he briefly surveyed the _Airget Lamh_'s pagoda-like bridge before addressing the communications officer.

'What are the orders from Fleet Headquarters?' he asked evenly.

'No orders are forthcoming from the _Leonidas_, sir.' The communications officer said, professionalism steady but unable to hide an understandable worry.

Fischer could understand that. The battle plan – which had seemed a trifle optimistic even then – had locked the fleet on cruising mode. They were to form up only an hour from now. The imperial fleet must have pushed very hard to get there first and still form up effectively.

That was beside the point, however. The problem was that they were here now, and any delay from the command staff would make it difficult, if not impossible, to fight back effectively.

_ Even at the best of times, with the fleet fully ready for battle, twelve thousands against twenty thousand wouldn't look good, _he thought, _But with no forthcoming counter-assault formation…_

It wasn't a very surprising situation, really. In twenty-five years of military service, Fischer had noted that the people in charge didn't know how to react to sudden changes in battle situations very well. There were noted exceptions, to be sure, but Pastoll wasn't noted as being one of them.

_ And we're clearly faced with a bold commander._ _Not reassuring at all._

Still, more time passed, and although chatter came from other ships in his squadron about what they should do, still nothing came from the fleet flagship. On the main screen, he saw that the Imperial Fleet had taken an excellent, well-planned formation. And that it was moving in fast.

Farther off at the edge of his vision, where one would only see the unforgiving, uncaring starts, pinpoints of lights from explosion showed.

He thought something: _too late now._

'The imperial fleet has opened fire on the vanguard squadron!' Came a shout from the lower grounds. 'The vanguard has been ordered to counterattack!'

'Only the vanguard?' Fischer asked.

'Yes, sir.'

_ Bollocks. That's not a plan. That's just reaction. _Fischer saw the flashes of light multiplying in front of him, and explosions from ships which simply hadn't been ready.

Fischer wasn't a tactician. Although he could admit to having a knack for moving ships effectively, he simply had never been good enough to read enemy movements in advance, see what they were going to do. It simply wasn't his expertise.

But even he could see disaster rearing its ugly head, a frighteningly normal state of affairs in the war so far as the Alliance was concerned.

His rear-guard squadron hadn't been ordered up, and if he were to be honest, he doubted any move towards the front would do anything but heighten the confusion he saw developing on the front lines. But he could still make sure that the ships under his command could still be prepared.

'Have the ships from the squadron form up into a defensive screen. Have our carriers send out half our Spartanian fighters to aid in that. A message to all the unit leaders: Unlock cruising formation and take defensive formation seventeen.'

Everyone in his squadron knew what that meant. He wouldn't have allowed it any other way. Glad to have something meaningful to do, his officers started to give out orders to the battleships, cruisers and destroyers under his command.

'Send a message to the _Leonidas_. Ask them for combat orders.' He asked as the flashes started getting closer.

'Sir, I've been trying, but no answer.'

He had thought it might be like this. _Nothing to be done about it. _Frowning at the pandemonium the rest of the Fourth Fleet was falling to, Fischer defaulted to the only option he had: circle the wagons, hold a defensive ground.

And hope that the enemy forces weren't out for complete destruction of the Fourth Fleet.

* * *

_Even surprised, even outnumbered, the Fourth Fleet's situation wasn't immediately unsalvageable. Had commands come down from the _Leonidas _as soon as the Imperial forces had been sighted, a makeshift reorganization of the battle lines could have been orchestrated. There would have been losses, but the debacle would have almost certainly been averted._

_ But the orders didn't come. The officers of the vanguard waited for them, disbelieving, and by the time it was realized that commands weren't going to be forthcoming, the battleships, cruisers and destroyers of the enemy started cutting up a swath of destruction among alliance ranks._

_ Missiles breached through energy shields and smashed into reinforced armour, detonating inside and causing secondary cascade explosions. Lancing energy beams melted through armour even as men watched in horror before death through fire or depressurization took them._

_ In space, the long rectangular, green-tinted ships of the Alliance were breached and became brief clouds of shrapnel and chemical fireballs before the might of the relentless, roughly gun-shaped Imperial ships._

_ Even as this happened, some commanders began to use signals and short-range communications to regroup and reconstruct lines, arraying in shaky arrangements and fighting back as best as they could._

_ It was then that orders came from admiral Pastoll and his staff. Orders to launch spartanian space fighters against their Imperial valkyrie counterparts. That the imperials had already launched their fighters seemed to have escaped the commanders. Or perhaps it was that, as their panic rose, they no longer cared. _

_ That command and the few other orders that followed no longer fully fit the combat situation that the ship captains and those squadron leaders still fighting had before them. In fact, executing such orders was almost tactically unfeasible. _

_ But the officers were grasping at straws, and were too desperate to see the complete picture. In most cases, attempts were made to launch fighters within the chaos, and to take a combat formation despite imperial ships in their midst._

_ The disaster that followed was inevitable._

_ Valkyrie pilots flew to the spartanian carriers, often before they could even launch, and assaulted the exposed, helpless fighters, destroying many of them, sometimes even the carrier itself as well._

_ Attempts at impossible formations brought ships out of alignment and in each other's way, prompting friendly fire brought on by panic. Groups of ships, seeing how hopeless things were, began to speed away from the conflict as the Imperial Fleet kept cutting in with terrible efficiency._

_ The meticulous-minded, cautious Alliance Fourth Fleet finally started to shatter into confused, scattering splinters._

* * *

**January 1, Universal Calendar Year 796 **

**Alliance 2nd Fleet Flagship 'Patrocles, Astarte Starzone**

Being useless was something people like Dusty Attenborough didn't take to very well. Incompetence was also something that rubbed him the wrong way. And standing still always drove him nuts.

A situation where contingency plans had been ignored and where changing situations had brought stagnation were unacceptable living conditions to be honest. Compound it with the fact that he was stuck babysitting nervous communications officers, and the average-looking, freckled-faced man fairly wanted to punch something or someone.

He wouldn't do that, of course. He was still first officer of the _Patrocles_, and that meant he had to maintain control over himself. Besides, the only things to punch were the wall, the computers and the communications officers. The first being too hard, the second too pricey, and the third far too problematic, Attenborough therefore elected to fume in silence as a form of general compromise.

So far it was working, even as he stood behind two of the officers trying to raise the Fourth Fleet.

"Fourth Fleet, please respond!" The first officer said.

"Fourth Fleet, this is the _Patrocles_. _Leonidas_, respond immediately!" The second stated once more. Their voice was taut. They knew something was very wrong. After all, communications were now an hour overdue.

"Still nothing, commander." The second officer said. It was useless, Attenborough could see that, had heard pretty much all of their efforts. But protocol had to be maintain.

"Alright," Attenborough mused, keeping his emotions back in check. He didn't need to vent, it'd only make the men more anxious. "Could our position be affecting our long-range communications? Or perhaps cosmic radiation is interfering with their systems?"

"No sir, that's highly unlikely," the first communications officer summarized, face taut and frowning. "Sixth Fleet reported in on schedule and we've been able to reach them. This isn't natural, sir."

He sighed before catching himself. It was exactly as they had feared. Fourth Fleet's communications were being jammed. That knowledge and what it meant seemed to have cast a pall of grim silence over the cavernous bridge, with only short conversations like the one he'd just had, whispered mutterings, and urgent calls for the Fourth Fleet to respond breaking the dreadful routine.

It was after the silence had stretched for a few long moments more that vice admiral Paeta's voice, calm and in control despite the tension, was heard. Being located in the secondary bridge, right under the primary command platform, Attenborough heard him almost as if he was standing next to the guy.

"Commodore Yang."

"Sir." Came the voice of Attenborough's former senior and friend.

"How do you view this situation? Give me your opinion."

Attenborough's spirits rose a bit at that. It was the first time that he'd ever heard Paeta seek out Yang's opinion. It was a good sign, if nothing else. Ever since he'd befriended the older Yang at the Academy, he'd respected the man for his insight, knowledge, and knack at coming up with strategies that worked.

"It means that the enemy's goal is to assault each fleet individually. For that, they needed to take out the Fourth Fleet, which was to their front relatively speaking," Yang said, sounding like a professor, albeit his tone remained respectful." Once they did that, they could then strike either the Sixth Fleet or the Second Fleet before the last two units could combine."

Paeta was clearly disbelieving, even as Yang's graphics of the situation came on screen. Attenborough could see it, and found they made a lot of sense. The fleet commander's tone wasn't so certain.

"But for the Fourth Fleet to fall so easily…" Paeta hesitated from above.

"It was likely a direct clash. Twenty thousand against twelve thousands. The Fourth Fleet likely didn't stand a chance."

"Then we must advance quickly and rescue our allies. We might then even be able to destroy the enemy fleet." The admiral said confidently.

"It's probably useless to do so, sir."

Yang quickly continued by saying that the Fourth Fleet was likely a loss already, and that going after it would only make the remaining fleets vulnerable. Instead, he advocated quickly combining the remaining two fleets so that the next battle would be more on their own terms.

Attenborough was a bit torn. He didn't have the ability Yang had of seeing the big picture, the capacity to abandon a doomed unit to rescue the other two. He understood Paeta wanting to come to the aid of the Fourth Fleet. But, in the end, the tactician in Attenborough told him that Yang's take on the situation was likely the best one.

Admiral Paeta, however, didn't see it that way. The Fourth Fleet could still be saved in his opinion, while Yang politely pointed out that to try to save it would be walking right into Lohengramm's trap.

"It might not be that way. If they're still holding their own."

"Sir, I told you, that's highly unlikely."

"Commodore, reality doesn't always fit into your plans." Paeta retorted, clearly irritated by now. In resignation mixed with his own irritation, the green-haired, freckled first officer already saw how things were going to end. The admiral was digging his heels firmly into the ground.

"Morover, the enemy commander, Count Lohengramm, is young and inexperienced. Admiral Pastoll, however, is a veteran of a hundred battles."

_ And yet I'm betting Lohengramm is trouncing Pastoll right now, _Attenborough thought almost bitterly. He couldn't quite get angry, however. Paeta's logic made sense from a purely moral standpoint. What he knew, however, was that Yang probably found the idea of abandoning comrades just as distasteful. He just seemed to find a way to do his job nonetheless.

_ If Yang'd been the commander, we wouldn't be in this mess right now, _he told himself with a conviction that only half-surprised him. Upstairs, Yang tried to reason that Lohengramm's tactics were a wild card they couldn't afford to discount, but the discussion was closed as Paeta ordered him to leave the argument be.

For the hundredth time at the very least, Attenborough wished that the command positions were reversed.

_ If wishes were horses, we'd all be riding one. Or something like that._ There was no point in wishing on something which wouldn't happen. They'd have to do with what they had.

"Still nothing, sir," one of the communications officers stated again in the same tone, only it sounded a bit more resigned to Attenborough's ear.

_There's not gonna be anything from the Fourth Fleet,_ he thought, _And this run of bad luck's just beginning unless something happens to change it._

* * *

_ With the explosion of the _Leonidas_, the Fourth Fleet lost the last of its defensive coherence. The field squarely belonged to the Imperial Fleet and the young Reinhard von Lohengramm. Cries went up to pursue the shattered fleet and finish it, as was traditional in such circumstances._

_ High Admiral von Lohengramm, however, hadn't shown himself to be a creature bound to tradition, and he showed that trait once again as orders were sent for the fleet to disengage and set sail for the sector that the Alliance Sixth Fleet was located in, reorganizing and resting as it did so._

_ The Sixth Fleet, unlike the Second, hadn't decided to go aid the Fourth Fleet. In fact, vice admiral Moore hadn't kept in touch with the other two fleets much, and hadn't budged from his designated course. Whether this was due to ignorance or arrogance was never to be fully known, although it was known that Moore, a fighter, was known as the most stubborn of the twelve main fleet commanders._

_ No matter the reason, the fact remained that the Sixth Fleet was caught perhaps even more unprepared than the Fourth, which had had the dubious advantage of a frontal assault. In this case, the Imperial Fleet hit from the back, on the starboard side. Sensors hadn't seen them until it was right on top of the Alliance fleet, and by the time Moore arrived, the attack had already begun in earnest,_

_ The Alliance attempted to retaliate with what side cannons could be targeted towards the back. Side cannons, however, were no match for a warship's main frontal cannons, and the difference in power showed immediately._

_ Perhaps it was due to this that orders came throughout the Sixth Fleet to turn about and engage the enemy, despite the chance that confusion would be heightened without proper coordination. What is known is that this became a tragic tactical error on admiral Moore's part._

_ The Imperial Fleet was too close by then to miss ships that turned towards them and exposed their size, and in this admiral Merkatz of the Imperial Fleet made the most shedding of blood. His close-range gunboats tore into the exposed Alliance cruisers and destroyers, while battleships fell to the guns of larger craft._

_ The Fourth Fleet had already fallen, and quickly it became certain that the Sixth Fleet would follow. Still, Alliance units fought as tenaciously as possible, and calls went out to the Second Fleet that an attack was underway. By then, the Second Fleet had moved towards the Fourth Fleet's last know positions, and was too far to help._

_ Confusion and fear spread as professionalism was stretched to the breaking point, with the command ships urging the remaining units of the fleet which were still whole to resist the enemy assault and fight back. Some did just that. Others saw the way the battle was going and refused to take part in what some saw as an untenable position._

_ By this time, the Battle of Astarte was already an unmitigated disaster for the Free Planets Alliance, with the first third of its forces shattered and the second in the process of shattering._

_ The Fourth Fleet had been destroyed because of hesitation._

_ The Sixth Fleet was being dismantled by what could safely be said to be stubbornness._

* * *

**January 1, Universal Calendar Year 796**

**Alliance Squadron Flagship 'Bayard', Astarte Starzone**

"Enemy destroyers closing in at three o'clock!"

"They've locked on. Evasion impossible, sir!"

"Direct hits, incoming!"

_ Thank you for telling us that detail, _a mocking voice stirred in Patorichev's mind. The rest of his intellect, however, was too focused on whether or not the_ Bayard _would survive the hit.

Suddenly, the ship heaved. There was the collective grunt of diamond-hard alloys as a bang reverberated throughout the ship, and Patorichev was flung from his chair as the gravity compensators were overtaxed. He landed flat on his back as other cries of fear and pain were heard as everyone was flung around like rag dolls.

He heard a smaller, closer explosion.

Above him, over the din, the lights flickered once, twice, then died. For a moment everything was dark. And then minimal lighting came on, casting everything into a depressing gloom.

The heaving stopped, and silence once again reigned, broken only by the occasional grunts of pain.

He grunted himself as he heaved his tall, massively-built frame off the floor, and took his beret where it had fallen, holding it in his hand as he took stock of the gloomy bridge. Commodore Matthews, whom he was serving as operations manager, was standing a bit farther off, looking in the direction of the ship captain's duty console, while he heard some of the other officers from the bridge's upper levels painfully getting back up.

He wasn't surprised when he saw Murai having taken the communications mike to talk about the ship. Even less surprising was that his voice sounded no different than if he were in the midst of a daily status check.

"So there is no way to restore power then." Murai said in his usual clipped, stern voice, his severe, unsmiling face partly cast in gloom. Patorichev noted with some wry disbelief that the smaller man's beret was still right where it always was. A part of him wondered, despite the seriousness of the situation, if Murai had considered himself too busy to fall down, and that the universe, too frightened to disprove him, had left him alone.

"Sir, it's a mess down here," the voice from engineering, sounding rushed and extremely stressed, seemed to convey that this was an understatement, "They hit clean through the engine sections. It was just luck that allowed us to initiate an emergency shutdown."

"Any chance for repairs."

"No sir. I wouldn't try anything like that without full docking facilities. Right now, if we power it up, well, we'll be cosmic dust before we can do anything."

Murai took that as stoically as Patorichev had pretty much seen him take anything. The ship was dead in the water, so to speak. There was nothing to be done about it. Patorichev winced at how vulnerable they all were right now, and how much of a mess the Sixth Fleet was in. With main power offline, the view screens had become blank walls, and sensors were inoperable. Anything could be happening outside and they wouldn't know of it.

Despite himself, he felt a surge of panic welling up from the bottom of his gut. Grimly, he fought it down. Protocols. That was the key to keeping focused. He started to walk towards the commodore, who hadn't yet budged, still looking over the captain's post.

"Commodore, given the current situation, I think it'd be wise to evacuate," He cautioned. There was no response. A moment later, he saw what his commanding officer was surveying, and it was his training that stopped him from gasping and stepping back.

He realized why the other explosion had seemed to close. In the din and chaos of the first, it hadn't seemed that loud.

The captain's terminal had blown up, right in Captain Valterra's face. The shrapnel had transformed said face into a mix of blood, torn flesh and bone fragments that he could have done without seeing just dead.

There was nothing to be done there. Only pray that he had died instantly. He looked down at the commodore, and saw he wasn't quite looking at the corpse anymore. In fact, he didn't seem to be looking at anything at all.

"Sir?" there was no response, "Sir!" _I think I can get that this is a lot to take, but we can't have the ranking officer in a daze. Not here, and certainly not now,_

Finally, Matthews stirred somewhat. His eyes were still glazed, but there was now a spark of recognition. For a moment, Patorichev felt pity and understanding – men had broken under the strain too many times for him not to – and then he forced himself to ignore the devastated corpse and return to the situation at hand.

"Commodore, we need to evacuate. Now." He repeated.

"I agree, Sir." Murai's voice came from the central station, "The Imperial Fleet is likely busy fighting active ships, and aren't concerned about us. But that could change. We need to be off this ship."

A slow nod, some comprehension. "Right… true… do that." Matthews said in an hollow voice.

Murai had no intention to be told twice. His voice soon resounded, firm, cool and professional. "To all personnel, the _Bayard_ is crippled beyond repair. Gather the wounded and head to the shuttle bay following evacuation protocols."

Patorichev had known Murai for many years, ever since he and the Hero of El Facil, Yang Wen-li, had busted a corrupt captain for embezzlement. Although they'd started to work together only over the last year, his easy-going manner and Murai's no-nonsense allowed them to make a great team.

He knew the crew thought Murai was a cold-hearted, analytical guy, something the big man knew to be untrue. But right now, that cool professionalism, that ability to be level-headed in trying circumstances… it sure was useful.

The rest of the bridge crew quickly made their way to exits, helping what wounded were there. A few bodies, he saw, lay there, dead. There would be no time for them, unless the ship wasn't destroyer and they could return to collect the bodies. Right now, as sad as the idea was, only the living mattered.

The elevators couldn't run with the remaining power focused on essentials, and they were forced to use emergency ladders to go from floor the floor, passing other officers and crewmen who were on their way.

There was damage, but the parts they went through had been spared the worst of it. Patorichev, however, wouldn't have wanted to be in the carnage that the engine compartments must have been even for a billion dinars.

The entire thing had a look of controlled chaos. There was danger, but blind panic would only make things worse, and the crew knew it. Professionalism had to be the rule here, and nothing else.

It was when they passed by a gloomy corridor with flickering lighting that they came upon one crewman who hadn't been as lucky as most.

"Is anybody… is anybody here? I…I need help!" Came the voice, cracking with panic. Murai and Patorichev looked at each other, looked at their largely unresponsive commanding officer, and made their way towards the voice along with two other crewmen.

Clearly, the surge had been worse here, and the bulkhead had closed off a section. Patoricheve stared at that spot in a moment, and saw an arm, perfectly sectioned off, lying in a small pool of blood, and felt a bit sick. Someone on the other side of the bulkhead hadn't been fast enough.

But the man he was seeing had only been marginally luckier. A piece of metal had fallen on him, pinning a leg down, and from the blood he saw underneath, whatever was there wasn't in the best of shape. The man, seeing them, hailed them in a mix of pathetic relief and rising panic.

"Please, please, get me out of here. I don't wanna die here! I want to see my wife again! My kids!" the man fairly sobbed. Given how terrorizing being left alone, with the smell of blood from a comrade having been squashed by a bulkhead, unable to move… Patorichev couldn't blame him.

Murai kneeled next to the man, revealing the gentler side Patorichev had fully seen only once, about seven or eight years past, talking to an Imperial prisoner, as he spoke gently.

"It's fine, soldier, don't worry. You're coming to the shuttles with us." He said calmly. He locked eyes with Patorichev a moment, and the large man nodded.

He took hold of the metal fragment that had fallen on the man's leg, quickly aided by the other two crewmen. Murai took hold of the fallen soldier under the armpits, ready to move him away from the disaster.

They heaved. The metal piece groaned and, almost as if on cue, so did they. Still, the metal moved up. Only a few centimeters, but enough for Murai to pull the man away. Patorichev and the other two officers let it go with a grunt of relief. Immediately, the assistant chief of staff went to the wounded, which Murai was quickly looking over. The leg looked rather bad, twisted in angles it couldn't take naturally. But at least it didn't seem to have been mashed into a pulp.

"Nothing we can do about it right now, not until we have the medical kits onboard a shuttle. Captain, you'll have to carry him."

"No problem, sir," Patorichev said. "Here we go, soldier."

With that comment, he carefully lifted the man in his arms. To others, it would have been considered difficult, if not impossible. But if there was one thing Patorichev admitted, it was that he was as strong as he was massive.

They finally made their way through to the main shuttle hangar, which seemingly had escaped damage. There, operations officers and crewmen were calmly directing people to the five main shuttles which would serve for evacuation. To his surprise, Patorichev noted that there was little in the way of actual panic, so well-coordinated the evacuation was going. Three of the shuttles were seemingly already prepped for launch.

They made their way to one. Upon seeing both the wounded man and the fact that among them was the squadron commander, the squadron chief of staff and the operations manager, they were let through rapidly, and left the wounded man with the other injured, tended to by the medical personnel which had seemingly been dispersed to all shuttles.

Patorichev knew that this was going so well because of the extremely strict evacuation plans he and Murai had implemented. Some had complained then, but he doubted any would afterwards.

Soon, they found their seats, and the commodore turned towards them, his eyes still having a slightly dazed look but his voice more alive, but low so that only they could hear.

"This is thanks to you. I want you to know that. I know I froze there, and you two didn't. Thank you." He said simply.

The large officer knew enough about Matthews to know that the man had been a political promotion. He wasn't a field officer, but he had pulled strings to get himself commanding a squadron in the Second Fleet.

All that considered, however, he hadn't been an obtuse man and had always taken Murai's advice. Just because of that, Patorichev couldn't resent him for letting the situation get to him. Some broke under the pressure, some didn't. That was just the way it was.

Murai didn't look modest or arrogant at the comment, only taking it neutrally as always. "Supporting your command is my duty, commodore. You did give your approval for this evacuation procedure. This is also your work, sir."

"I signed the necessary documents; you two did all the work. Don't think I'll take that away from you. I know what's what." He said, and with that, the commodore ordered that the shuttles, now filled, depart.

Using some of the last energies from the backup generators, the bay doors were opened, and the shuttles glided out, picking up speed. The electronic viewports afforded them a view of the outside, and they couldn't miss the state of the _Bayard._

The ship was a standard, heavily armoured battleship that the Alliance had been using as its mainstay for decades, and consisted of three main modules. A main engine and several fuel tanks formed a full third of the ship, and the middle was comprised of the bridge, crew quarters, main medical facilities, as well as the shuttle bay and the spartanian launch bay. The frontal module was made of the _Bayard_'s eight powerful main cannons.

It was a design that, despite being smaller and perhaps slightly less advanced than its imperial counterpart, was sturdy enough and packed enough of a punch to equal it on the battlefield.

Right now, however, the _Bayard_ wasn't the powerful ship it was only an hour ago. Gaps from exploded, torn hull plating joints, scars from enemy fire and lack of any lighting made it nothing but a large husk. As he looked, he saw the empty spartanian launch bay – all of them lost in the fighting – as well as the mangled engine section, where the enemy had focused their firepower.

He preferred not to look at the debris too closely. He knew there were likely bodies floating out there. As the shuttle sped away, he also noticed that the signs of fighting remained, but had travelled quite a ways away. It seems that the ship _had_ been left for dead.

The fierceness of the assault, the fact that the Imperial Fleet didn't pursue stragglers, didn't send ships after fleeing units, and finally left disabled ships alone, made the entire thing a clear blitzkrieg assault. One that the Sixth Fleet hadn't been ready for.

He shook his head, tried to quip.

"So much for an easy victory."

Murai nodded. Matthews seemed to be lost in thought once more. There was no humour to be had here. He fell silent, certain of only one thing.

The Alliance had lost this fight.

* * *

_Caught by surprise and from behind, the Sixth Fleet quickly incurred major damage to its units, but the situation was originally not completely unsalvageable in the eyes of some. If the fleet commanders had acted quickly and in the right way, if the right tactical decisions had been given, the fleet likely would have maintained cohesion and been able to fight back effectively enough._

_ The Sixth Fleet, however, was commanded by a man who was better known for his aggressive assaults than for tactical genius. Despite the fact that some counselled against it, all vice admiral Moore could see was that the enemy was behind him, and he ordered his fleet to turn towards it to give it battle. _

_ Moore might have had a plan to turn the battle around had his forces managed the turn. The quickness of the imperial assault, however, had made several units panic, and the order to turn around only heightened the confusion as some commanders attempted to carry out the direct command, while others hesitated and kept firing._

_ This led to a breakdown of command which the Imperial Fleet used to its advantage, quickly penetrating deep in the Alliance formation and disrupting it quickly. _

_ During the battle, the Sixth Fleet flagship _Pergammon_ found itself and its escort detail surrounded by the rapidly advancing Imperial forces. The cruisers and destroyers which accompanied it were quickly overwhelmed by sheer numbers, while the flagship was damaged._

_ Quite aware of the importance of its target and having the overwhelming upper hand, the Imperial Fleet gave Moore and his crew an offer to surrender to them, but was rejected, and the Pergammon opened fire with all of its weapons. The Imperial ships quickly retaliated, and sunk the ships._

_ So complete was its destruction that there were no survivors._

_ With this, the battle with the Sixth Fleet had largely come to an end, leaving two fleets torn apart and scattered. With two fleets destroyed, Lohengramm and his staff decided to set a course for the last, and largest, of the three fleets._

_ The Imperial Fleet hadn't come out of the fighting intact, but what damage and loss had occurred was overshadowed by their brilliant success thus far. Although the men were certainly tired, they were in high spirits._

_ They had come to Astarte certain that they would be defeated. But instead, now, they were winning the battle despite having been outnumbered two-to-one._

_ Before the battle, Reinhard von Lohengramm was generally seen as a competent but lucky young commander._

_ As the fleet sped towards what its members saw as the last phase of a victorious campaign, he had become much more than that._


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**Desperate Battle**

**January 2, Universal Calendar 796**

**Alliance 2nd Fleet Flagship Patrocles, Astarte Starzone**

When she pursed her lips in thought, Poplan somehow knew that he had her. She might keep playing hard-to-get, but he recognized interest when he saw it.

The greatest spartanian ace of the Second Fleet – and he was the greatest, no matter what others might think! – freely admitted to only two talents: piloting a space fighter, and getting women to sleep with him. On the first, he admitted that there were a few who might argue the position as the best.

On the second, no one in the fleet could measure up to him!

This time, his interest lay in a relatively tall, dark-haired woman from the operations division, an ensign likely fresh out of the academy. While the military was rather lax where it came to length of hair, she had chosen to cut it short, shorter than even a fair number of men Poplan knew. It gave her a tomboyish, tough look.

It also suited her entirely well, and he'd gone on the hunt almost immediately.

"I'm not looking for any relationship, sir." She said at last, as they sat next to each other near the _Patrocles_' spartanian maintenance bay. Not far away, technicians worked to tune the fighters. He paid them no mind.

"Poplan. It's Poplan," He said with an easy smile. "Ranks don't matter in situations like this!"

She smiled despite herself. "The admiralty would disagree with that."

"When I'm as old as they are, I'll think about it. But I think people have to enjoy themselves every single time they can! A life of fun is a life without regrets!"

Her smile widened, and there was a twinkle in her eyes. Yup, the Poplan charm was fully at work.

"That's almost childish!" she chuckled. He nodded proudly, earning himself another smile.

"Children know how to have fun. Think about it! I'm not looking for a relationship, either. It's perfect. Its win-win for the both of us."

"Assuming we're alive after the battle." She said, more seriously. He waved the comment aside.

"All the more reason for us to have plans! If we die, well at least we had something good prepared. And if we live, we can celebrate ever more because of it!"

She shook her head. "I really need to report to my post," she mused, rising. She turned to leave, hesitated, and then, with a grin, added, "But my roommate is on night duty these days, sir. Just a thought."

She walked away down the steel corridor. Poplan watched her go with a satisfied mien. He'd done it again. He hadn't even mentally patted himself on the back for a job well done for more than a few seconds before a voice he knew very well drifted from the other side.

"Another fine demonstration of lieutenant Poplan's utter lack of shame." The voice carried both a resigned amusement and slight mockery to it. The red-haired ace turned his head towards the other man in mock indignation.

"I see it as my great ability to love and be loved!"

"I don't think I could ever see it like that." The other man noted.

"Ah, you're a hard one to bring to the enlightenment that comes from intimacy, Konev!" he put his hands forward as if in prayer as he stood up. "But I'm not losing hope yet that you'll join me in this great font of knowledge!"

Konev, a blond-haired man who always seemed indifferent to things around him as far as Poplan was concerned, shook his head, crossing his arms. Like Poplan, he was dressed in the white and orange flight suit of the spartanian pilots. The verbal sortie didn't seem to impress him at all.

"Again with the nonsense. But I guess that's the way you are."

"Better my nonsense than the boredom of solving crossword puzzles as a hobby."

"You're a lecher, mister Poplan."

"And you a stiff, Mister Konev."

Had anybody weighed in only the words, he or she might have thought there was intense dislike between the two men. However, the friendly, chiding tone that controlled the conversation dispelled that notion. The two had been working together for nearly three years now, watching each other's backs in dogfight after dogfight. No amount of disagreement could break the bonds between spartanian pilots.

Of course, with Konev, it was more than that. Poplan could count on one hand the pilots who had piloting skills similar to his own in Second Fleet. Of those chosen few, Konev was without a doubt the most skilled. Although the red-haired womanizer would never openly say so for fear of losing a bit of his edge, Konev was in fact the only pilot he knew whose skills potentially equalled his own.

Such a shame the man was such a hard-case about things like fraternization. As if a little fun would harm anybody. _Well, more fun for me, I guess._

"Did you come see me to blast the fact that I secured myself another fine night of passion?" he said at length.

"That's what it was?" Konev wondered with a slight grin, and then his face became serious again. "I got word from communications through an officer I know. Things aren't looking good out there."

"You sure it's not the comms people being paranoid?"

"Hey, I resent that remark." Another voice mused in a half-serious cry. A man with hair of a deeper red than Poplan's and a bronze-skinned man, both in pilot flight suits, were making their way to them.

Lieutenants Warren Hughes and Sale Aziz Cheikly were barely behind Konev and Poplan in skill and number of kills. In fact, the four of them were known throughout the fleet as the 'Four Aces', and they had painted their personal spartanians painted to match: the Ace of Spades for Hughes, the Ace of Diamonds for Cheikly, the Ace of Clubs for Konev.

And, of course, the Ace of Hearts for Poplan. It went without saying, then and now.

"My sister is a communications officer." Hughes continued as the two came up to them.

"Ah, yes, a pretty one, your sister," Poplan mused, "She turned me down repeatedly."

"Always knew the girl had sense!" Cheikly said brightly. He, Hughes and Konev all chuckled at that. Poplan hmphed at that, but couldn't help but smile as well. The he looked back at Konev seriously.

"You said 'not good'. How bad?"

"Really bad. They lost contact with the Fourth Fleet hours ago, and I heard the Sixth Fleet's just gone silent." Konev said. All sense of levity left the four, there a corner of the immense spartanian maintenance bay. They barely noticed the technicians and engineering officers coming and going.

"Damn." Was all Hughes could say. It summed up the situation quite nicely, though.

"Yeah. Think the fliers put up a good fight?" Cheikly wondered.

"We don't even know if they managed to launch at all." Konev noted grimly. That sent a shiver coursing up and down Poplan's spine. It was one thing to die because of pilot error, or because the enemy was just luckier this time, or more skilled. It didn't matter how. They all accepted that, no matter how skilled you were, every dogfight could be your last.

But to die without even being capable of fighting back? That was unacceptable to Poplan. That was beyond ridiculous, the most pathetic of pathetic deaths. He knew that the others agreed on that as well. Their grim looks at the notion spoke volume about their feelings.

"So the brass fucked up, huh?" Poplan bitterly noted at last. "Wish I could say that it's a big shock to me, but I'd be lying my ass off."

"Is the Imperial Fleet coming for us, now?" Hughes asked.

"It's like a dogfight against three enemy fighters. They fuck up or you're better than them, so you shoot two of them down," Cheikly mused. "Do you go for the last one or do you let it go?"

The analogy, as imperfect as some may call it, stuck perfectly to Poplan's mindset. He knew what he'd do.

"You gun for the last one. That's what I'd do. Every time, no contest." The other two men nodded. So would they.

"Still thinking the whole thing with that ops woman was worth it?" Konev mused with a weary smile. At that, Poplan blinked, and smiled his brightest smile.

"Well of course! I aim to survive this one like all the others, and when I do, I'll have the type of night that make life worth living!" Hughes groaned, Cheikly shook his head, and Konev shrugged helplessly.

They continued to banter; pumping each other up, readying themselves for the upcoming fight that they knew would be rough at best. They knew enough about their commanding officer to know that Paeta wasn't the best of the best as fleet commanders went. And an enemy commander that beat two fleets in quick succession was likely something else.

Poplan was ready. Once in the cockpit, once in space, he'd make the Imperials sorry they came near his fighter.

The only thing he feared, of course, was not being able to get out there at all.

* * *

**'Patrocles' Bridge**

This time, there was no more room for doubts. This time, nobody thought it might be a communications problem, or a fluke. No one could take refuge in denial. Not that Attenborough had ever done such a thing.

The Fourth Fleet had been crushed. Followed by the Sixth Fleet. And now the fast-striking enemy was coming for them. He wondered why that was so hard to grasp for some of the other officers. To him, it was crystal clear.

_Senior Yang_ _was right about pretty much everything, _he thought, unconsciously using the nickname he had dragged from his days at the academy, when Yang had been an upperclassman while Attenborough had been a freshman. Their friendship, born from an incident where Yang had let him get away with bypassing curfew, had only made the nickname more fitting.

The fact that Yang could have safely said 'I told you so' to the rest of the brass which had gone to some lengths to dismiss his worries or simply refused to acknowledge his plans didn't make the green-haired officer feel better. The young commander was well aware that Yang had predicted that they would lose if things continued the way it was.

Tension on the bridge was palpable and lay particularly heavy on those who manned the sensors, trying to pinpoint where the enemy would come from. Almost complete silence reigned. This time, not even the communications officers were heard: the other two fleets wouldn't respond and, even if it did, neither would be in any shape to help when the time came.

If there was one good thing about the destruction of the other fleets – insofar as anyone could see good in the fall of comrades – it was that the Second Fleet, at least, was ready for a fight. It had taken a battle formation, and was in a ready state. Moreover, they had worked out where the enemy would come from if it continued on the pattern it had started.

He could tell himself that, at least, they wouldn't be taken from the back.

One of the officers, a pretty competent one who went by the name of Lao, suddenly spoke to him as he came out of the elevator, having just talked with Yang. "Sir, do you think they'll be here soon?"

_How should I know, _he thought for a moment, but refrained. The men were nervous. The last thing they needed was to hear a tirade, Attenborough-style. Instead, he defaulted to the attitude that had seen him through such moments.

"I sure hope so!"

The other officer stared. He grinned in response.

"Of course I do. It's better than waiting. It's the wait that's grinding us down. I prefer a straight fight to that."

"Right. Of course, sir." Lao didn't seem to share Attenborough's need for a fight. In fact, he looked as if he'd be quite alright if the Imperials simply packed up and went home.

Truthfully, Dusty Attenborough happened to want the same thing. But knew that it wouldn't happen.

"Enemy fleet approaching, in the midst of a high-speed approach!" A sensor operations officer shouted.

"The direction is one point two o'clock, eleven degrees angle of inclination!" Another followed almost immediately.

Lao and Attenborough exchanged a look.

"You got what you wished for."

"Yup, goodness help us all."

From the highest command bridge, Paeta stirred. "Battlestations!"

_Slow_, was all Attenborough could think, before he settled himself to the task of giving commands to the ship's different sectors that were his direct responsibility. From the viewports, he could see that both sides had started to exchange fire at extreme range.

At least the Second Fleet was ready to fight back. Yes, at least there was that. They wouldn't be taken down easily like the others. But the way things were going, he wasn't sure they weren't going to be taken down anyway, no matter how hard a fight they put in.

Flights of spartanians were already out there to negate the enemy valkiries, a cautious move. But even as the first shots were exchanged, one of them was hit right outside the bridge on the board side. Its pilot either dead or its commands at least fried, the space fighter careened straight into the hull. To the onlookers, it was like it was going to crash through the viewport itself.

The impact was greater than some might think it was. To achieve the capabilities that the spartianians had, it was outfitted with a miniature, short-range fusion reactor. When it hit, the reactor exploded.

The bridge area was rocked, even as emergency bulkheads sealed the area the prevent depressurization, but the damage had been done. Not all systems were that well insulated, and the energy burst caused secondary explosions even as the entire bridge rocked.

Debris came down from the upper bridge. It had been hit badly, it seemed. Attenborough had enough time to get away from his console before it exploded in his face, but it caused him to smash into the wall.

Sharp pain consumed his left arm. _Badly sprained, maybe broken_, he thought even as he cried out involuntarily. Gritting his teeth, he stood up and surveyed the damage. The lights, which had shifted to secondary power for a few moments, came back online even as he did.

The damage wasn't as extensive as he thought, but he saw that several officers were down. These were being helped by others. He was hardly in any state to physically help anyone at this point, anyway. Clutching his arms, he went to the elevator to check on the upper bridge, which had been seemingly hit harder. He had heard nothing from that quarter since the first explosions.

He fought a wave of dizziness from the combined stress and pain even as he exited the elevator, and leaned against the wall to keep his balance.

The first thing that Attenborough noticed was that the entire deck was covered by debris. It did seem like the upper bridge had been hit worse. Obviously having been hit, the bodies of the chief of staff and the ship's captain could be seen. While the captain groaned slightly, the chief of staff's body wasn't moving at all.

The second thing he saw was that the fleet commander was lying sprawled on the deck near his command post. With that, Attenborough realized, if the Imperial Fleet had also found a way to kill the second-in-command, rear admiral Martinez, and the entire fleet command might well have been beheaded.

The only piece of luck in the whole picture was that, near Paeta, Yang was busy talking to engineering, telling them that the bridge would take care of itself and to focus on repairing the hull.

"I want medical personnel and a repair team on the bridge on the double," He said before cutting the conversation short and leaning over to look at the rest of the bridge. "Are there able-duty personnel left down there?"

There were some responses from the lower levels, and Attenborough moved forward, still leaning on the wall. The pain in his arm was still atrocious, but he forced himself to ignore it as best he could.

"I'm still okay. I'm not giving up over this." He reported, and Yang turned to look at him, clearly relieved to see him alive. Attenborough noticed that blood was coming down the left side of his face, but it didn't seem to be bothering the black-haired commodore much.

"Glad to see you're alive. Anybody else?" Yang enquired hopefully.

"Not many. Not in the command staff that I could see." He replied, shaking his head. He pushed away from the wall.

As they talked, medical personnel arrived with support staff, and started tending to the wounded. They moved to aid the captain, but the one who was near the chief of staff only shook his head and moved on. _Damn_.

Admiral Paeta was groaning even others looked over Attenborough and Yang. The former simply asked for a sling for his arm, while Yang simply asked them to stop the bleeding. As this happened, he heard the vice admiral clearly enough.

"Flagship _Greene_ got hit… contact was lost… with rear admiral Martinez in the first volley. Damn it all!"

That wasn't the sort of thing that anybody needed to hear, especially right now. As the sling was put in place, Attenborough shot Yang a look of concern. From the grim look he got back, Yang had heard it too.

But Paeta wasn't finished, even as the medical officer prepared to put him on a medical stretcher. That was a mechanical unit which would provide stabilizing first aid until he could be tended to in the _Patrocles' _proper medical bay.

"Commodore Yang," the fleet commander said, and Yang approached him, "I order you to take command of the fleet."

"What? Me, sir?" Yang seemed taken aback by the sudden shift in the situation. Attenborough preferred not to show his own opinion at that moment.

"You're the highest-ranking officer who can carry out his duty. Time to show that tactical ability of yours…" And with that, Paeta fell silent, likely due to exhaustion. He was put on the stretcher and led away even as the nurses were finished with Attenborough and Yang.

The former could only look at the unconscious admiral and think, _this is the only good call you've made since this battle began._ Unfair, maybe, but given the situation, he wasn't feeling in a fair mood. He then looked at his senior and friend. "So, you're being appraised." He quipped.

Yang shrugged, but the look in his face had changed. It wasn't the look of near-boredom and resigned amusement that the commodore often wore. It had become a quiet look of determination.

People thought that Yang was all talk and no action. While Attenborough could attest that his friend would much better not fight, and certainly was an underwhelming physical fighter, he had seen enough to know two things. One, that Yang, once thrust into positions where lives depended on him, always rose to the occasion. And two, that a disdain for fighting didn't mean that the man wouldn't fight when pushed.

Yang took the communications mike, asked to be patched through to all ships, sighed, and then spoke, his voice calm and yet confident.

"To all ships, this is commodore Yang Wen-li onboard the flagship _Patrocles_. The fleet commander has been injured. As the admiral's orders, I will be taking over command of the fleet," he said simply, pausing a moment to let the last part sink in, and then continued, "I want everybody to stay calm and continue standard defensive operations. If you follow my orders, we'll get out of this."

"We might be losing right now, but it what matters is winning at the end," Yang stopped, smiled at Attenborough in what seemed like embarrassment. "Now I'm the one talking a big game."

Attenborough gestured approvingly with the hand that could still move without causing pain. "That's fine. We expect big talk. We need it right now." _Besides, I know you're not all talk. If you say we can win, it means you think we can. And if you think we can, you'll find a way to do it._

Yang returned to the mike. "We won't lose! Until I give new orders, all ships are to undertake individual standard defensive posture. Yang out." He put the mike away, shook his head, and then shot Attenborough a tired but determined look.

"Well, let's do the best that we can, shall we?"

The green-haired commander saluted. Despite the situation, he couldn't shake the certainty that the odds for the Second Fleet's survival had just greatly improved.

* * *

**'Patrocles' Fighter Bays**

"Well, at least we didn't get the speech filled with patriotism and all that stuff," Poplan decided after the fleet-wide announcement was ended.

"Ah, something you never could stand, right? How do you think he'll do?" Konev mused.

The carrot-haired ace frankly had no idea. He'd seen Yang a few times, and he seemed rather nice and less standoffish than most of the brass. And, like everybody else, he knew about his dramatic rescue of three million civilians at El Facil. The latter told him that Yang likely wouldn't crack under the pressure. There was that.

It didn't say anything about how well he'd be able to command warships, however.

He thought about it, and decided he didn't care about that.

"We'll see what happens. Right now, all I know is that it means only one thing for us. Standard defense!" he crowed.

"We launch."

"That's right. Now the one who downs the least enemy fighters buys the drinks, remember that!"

* * *

**'Patrocles' Bridge**

Die or live, at least they'd do it doing what they did best. He'd leave the rest to the Hero of El Facil.

For a moment, Yang thought he saw Julian when they were taking a wounded man away. Unreasonably, he looked down in sudden horror as something icy gripped his gut. Even though he now had the boy as a ward for less than two years, it seems he had grown to see him as family already.

But it wasn't Julian, just a young man with similar hair. He relaxed, feeling slightly stupid at his own overreaction. Of course Julian wouldn't be there. He was too young to be a soldier. The minimum age of fifteen would come for many months still.

And once it came, he'd do his best so that Julian wouldn't be taken into the military. The kid was bright and hard-working. He deserved better.

He let go of his concern over Julian, and briefly surveyed his command. Ad-hoc as it was, he felt rather satisfied with it.

Attenborough had taken over as the _Patrocles_' captain. As the former first officer, that made sense. Even if it hadn't, though, Yang would have taken the man. A surviving officer named Lao, who had survived the damage on the bridge unharmed, get the impromptu post as adjutant, while one of Yang's own underlings at tactical had taken his place.

It was a bare-bones command, but right now, it would have to do. His team worked fast enough to get the bridge back into fighting shape, getting the injured and the dead out and assigning men to the stations that still worked. The bride would need repairs, but it still worked fine.

At that moment, Attenborough was reading sensor information relayed from the more powerful monitors as well as the officers manning them. After a cursory examination, his friend turned to him.

"The enemy forces are taking a spindle formation," he reported.

Yang nodded. He thought that might happen. "Makes sense. It's a good formation for breaking through the center and attempt to tear our cohesion apart," he mused, "In fact, it might well be a natural tactic for the imperial fleet in this sort of situation. They did shatter two fleets. Morale must be high."

"And how should we cope with it?" Attenborough inquired.

"Well, there is a countermeasure that I've come up with. Probably will work, since they're whipped to the point of overconfidence now."

Attenborough didn't question him about it, which he found both reassuring and a bit embarrassing. His friend was having perhaps too much confidence in his planning abilities. The was still Reinhard von Lohengramm, who commanded that white ship. Anything could happen with someone like that.

"But how do we tell the rest of the fleet what to do without alerting the enemy. They're bound to listen in on our communications."

Yang nodded. "That shouldn't be a problem. Just send a fleet-wide message to the rest of the fleet. It should read' open the C-4 circuits on the strategic computer'. Even if the Imperials do listen in, they won't know what to do with the information."

Attenborough actually smirked at that. "You saw this situation coming and you put your battle plans right into the strategic computers, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Would've been better if I never had had to use it, though." He scratched his head a moment, something he often did when either bothered or in deep thought. "Well, for now, transmit the command to all ships. Then we'll deal with the next step."

"Yes, sir." His former junior at the academy answered readily, getting to work. Yang turned to Lao.

"Fleet status?"

"Twelve percent loss, sir. Defensive positions are holding."

That was good. So that the plan would work, they were going to have to make it look good. And to make it look good, it would mean they were going to have to take some hits. Grimly, he looked at the sensor graph as the Imperial Fleet closed in with the Alliance lines with all possible speed.

Barrage met barrage as green-tinted Alliance ships fought back against encroaching grey Imperial warships. Battleships burst forth with raw firepower, their heavy armour and heavy shielding shrugging off many blows. Cruisers poured between the cracks, melding speed, energy beams and missiles causing massive damage to enemy counterparts, trying to run past enemy lines, even as smaller destroyers ran interference to fighters and larger warships alike.

Between the behemoths, spartanians and valkyries danced about each other in a deadly contest of skill, wits and speed. And still the imperial formation edged deeper.

Yang saw it all, but at this point, he was a spectator. Only if his plan seemed to fall apart would he change the commands he'd put into the strategic computers. Otherwise, he'd cause only confusion.

"Enemy ship approaching!" a sensor operator warned as a graphic representation of the ship appeared. "Standard battleship image, registry reads as the _Wallenstein_!"

"Main cannons, even firing!" Attenborough ordered immediately.

It all came down to individual ships then. In the ship battles in the last three decades, the Imperial _Bismarck-Class _battleship had been matched by the Alliance _Zhao Zeng-Class_ battleship. In a meeting of two such ships, there was no way to know which would come out the victor in a straight brawl.

But the _Wallenstein_ was facing the _Patrocles_, an _Ajax-Class_ command battleship of much greater firepower and heavier armour. While Attenborough's orders carefully strengthened the forwards shields and successfully blocked a hit from the enemy's six heavy neutron cannons, the enemy captain wasn't that fast, and took a hit from the full might of the flagship's forty.

Most were fended off, but overwhelmed the shields, and three blasted through the enemy's armour. In mere moments, the _Wallenstein_ was sunk. A relieved cheer rose from the bridge, but was quickly cut off as another silhouette came into view. On cue, a sensor operator shouted another alarm.

"Standard enemy battleship, identified as the _Kärnten_!"

The same dance happened again. This time, however, the enemy captain was ready, and had put all possible energy into the forward shields. Both ships shot at each other ineffectively, until even close-range fire would be fatal for both ships. Seeing the danger, Attenborough gave quick orders.

"Evasive manoeuvres! Rotate!" he ordered quickly.

Clearly, the enemy had no intention of dying through ramming, either, as it rotated as well, and the image of the enemy battleship loomed large on the viewports as both side tried their best to avoid a collision.

Luck was everybody's side at that moment, as the ships barely managed to avoid disaster, the two ships scrapping each other as they passed one another, too close to take a shot, and finally disengaging, both continuing forward on their own path.

Yang let go of a breath he didn't know he had been holding. That one. That one had been close. He could really do without all of the excitement.

The acting captain noticed the acting fleet commander's reaction. "They sure are high-spirited, those damned Imperials!"

Yang nodded. "We might just be witnessing the birth or a particularly great commander," he mused.

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"Someone who can get his men to go forward that zealously, that's a commander to be feared. We call them great because they can draw more fight than usual from their troops."

"You don't say. I guess you're right." Attenborough noted. Yang looked at him quickly, wondering what the amusement in the man's tone had meant, but his friend had turned to renew orders to the ship's staff.

He looked at the graphic. According to sensor information, the Second Fleet was on the verge of being cut in two. With jamming, that would normally be devastating, as the two halves would have no way of coordinating with the other. Confusion would spread, and the Imperial fleet could shatter each half one by one at leisure. Their victory would be complete.

It had a certain brand of arrogance there, although it wasn't entirely unwarranted given the circumstances of the battle so far. It was a perfect breakthrough, worthy of any academy textbook.

And it was exactly what Yang had hoped would happen. His ships, after all, didn't need communications. They knew exactly what to do now.

"We're just about cut in two," he noted, then crossed his arms as his plan unfolded, "Well, so far, it seems to be going well for us."

* * *

_By this time of the battle, the Imperial Fleet under Reinhard von Lohengramm had dominated the battlefield, successfully scattering two fleets into tactical irrelevance. Morale was very high, which explained the shared eagerness to strike a blow at the last and largest fleet, the Alliance Second Fleet._

_Despite some losses on the previous encounters, the Imperial Fleet still outnumbered the Alliance Fleet. This however, was offset by the fact that it had fought two battles, making its crews more tired and more sluggish to adapting to changing situations. Also, it had already expanded a lion's share of its ordinance. _

_The fact remained that, had the Alliance not been fully prepared, the last assault would have sealed the entire campaign as a complete victory for the Galactic Empire._

_However, the Alliance had been prepared, as its acting fleet commander, Yang Wen-li, had read through the tactical plan and had ordered the fleet to use a precise response he had programmed into the tactical computer system. _

_Exhilarated by its apparent victory, the Imperial forces boldly charged onwards, and initially didn't notice that not only had the enemy fleet given way rather easily, but that its two halves were far from confused, moving past them in relative unison, formations still largely intact despite losses._

_High admiral Lohengramm quickly took notice of those facts, but by this time, his forces had expanded themselves in yet another charge, and warning came too late. The two halves of the Alliance Second Fleet sped away and rejoined behind the enemy lines, catching the rear of the Imperial Fleet._

_Suddenly, the tables had been turned. The triumphant blow had spectacularly backfired._

_However, where admiral Pastoll had frozen in confusion, and Moore had reacted with flawed recklessness, Lohengramm kept calm, refusing to do either. Rather, he ordered his fleet to make a clockwise turn, intent on catching the tail of the enemy himself and reversing the reversal. The Alliance forces, not to be shaken off, pursued._

_As the two fleets turned around each other, they began to form an impromptu circle, which became more and more defines as the attempts to keep up with the enemy continued. Only having happened once for a short time at that Second Battle of Tiamat fifty years previously, it fairly baffled and annoyed both sides, as the two points where the two fleets met were the only parts where heavy fighting continued. The rest of each fleet was just speeding to catch up. Or escape._

_The Imperial Fleet had greater numbers and higher morale. But it also had many damaged ships and its soldiers were at the end of their rope from the quick succession of engagements. In effect, neither fleet had a significant advantage over the other. It had become, as both commanders recognized, a battle of attrition that neither could win._

_Cognizant of this and as satisfied of his incomplete victory as he could be, Lohengramm decided not to pursue combat operations, and disengaged his forces, heading away with the intent to reform his lines and return to the Empire. _

_Having no intention of continuing the fight in these circumstances, Yang let the enemy disengage and refused any query to pursue, preferring to solidify his own positions and assess the general status of Alliance forces in the area._

_So ended what would come to be known as the Battle of Astarte, a fight which, unknown to all involved, would have a role in shaping events for many years to come._

* * *

**January 3, Universal Calendar 796**

**Somewhere in Heinessenpolis, Planet Heinessen**

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think that this was all fine entertainment."

"I can't say I much care for your tone. These two men are different from the average military commanders we've dealt with."

"Concerned about military men? I'm surprised. This is but one battle. It won't change anything to the current status quo. Or to our own objectives."

"Like the Battle of Dagon wasn't supposed to derail our objectives. And yet…"

"Why must you always return on that battle? We are hardly responsible for the bungling involved by people who lived fifteen decades ago. Besides, we have learned since the debacle and the unfortunate aftermath."

"Unfortunate? I'd say so, given that Oersted nearly destroyed everything and it took us decades to rebuild."

"Yet rebuild we did. Stop worrying about those two men. I've read about both. Lohengramm is too involved with the machinations of the Imperial Court to notice us for a long time. As for Yang, although he certainly has the academic inclinations, he lacks interest to undertake matters unless they are presented to him, which we will make sure don't happen."

"Let's hope you're right about this. Youth, genius intellect and creative mindset are a mix we'd best avoid having against us if at all possible."

"Trust me on this. Neither of these young men will have any effect on our plans in the end."


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

**Aftermath to a Debacle**

**January 6, Universal Calendar 796**

**Alliance 2****nd**** Fleet Flagship 'Patrocles', Astarte Starzone**

Part of him still couldn't grasp that Jean Robert Lapp, his oldest friend, was gone. The thought that Lapp could fall in such a stupid battle was something he had never even entertained. But the facts brought before him were as clear as daylight: the _Pergammon_ was lost with all hands.

What frustrated him the most is that some ships had been close enough to see what had happened. They had seen the flagship charge the enemy in a suicidal run after a stand-off. Although no one knew what had been said, the fact that the _Pergammon_ was in such a disadvantageous position could only mean that they had been offered to surrender.

Moore was known well enough, however, that even Yang could tell what had happened: he refused. Probably over the much more reasonable and intelligent Lapp's objections. His friend had died because a mad dog of a commander had refused to surrender, dragging his officers down with him to an early grave.

He briefly thought about all of the times he had spent with Lapp. Cutting classes. Breaking curfew. Mooning over the beautiful Jessica Edwards. Jessica, who'd soon find that her fiancé was gone. Jessica, who'd be devastated. It was...it was…

A bad idea. That was what this all was. This was a downward spiral, one that took people in and didn't release them easily. However, Yang had had to deal with that spiral when his father had died, leaving him an orphan. He knew its tricks, and knew how to shut it off if need be.

And right now, he couldn't afford it, not when he was about to meet with those high-ranking officers who had survived the debacle that Astarte had become.

The depths of the disaster had been so great and the previous feeling of an easy victory had been so strong that nobody had truly prepared for a defeat. There was no thought of a back-up, of wide-scale support. Consequently, they had already been there three days, slowly but surely restructuring themselves, making emergency repairs, and mourning the dead.

Three days, and it would be at least three more before the Eight Fleet, the closest help would arrive with more hospital ships. He supposed he'd have to make due. He sighed, willing the frustration away, a trick he'd had since childhood. It wasn't working that well at the moment.

The Second Fleet's main meeting room had become the nexus of the remaining expeditionary force, and the _Patrocles_, as repaired as it could be without a shipyard, its main command ship. As Yang entered the room, accompanied by Attenborough, he saw that the surviving six commodores from all three fleets were present with their respective chiefs of staff.

As one, they stood up and saluted, which still somewhat took Yang aback. Fischer and Nilsen of the Fourth Fleet, Matthews, sole flag officer of the remaining Sixth Fleet, as well as Cambria, Javadi and Tran from his own Second Fleet, were all commodores like him. However, they were all older and had been at this rank longer. In effect, he was the junior.

_Heck, there's Murai_ _over there,_ he thought as he saw the older, stern-faced man next to Matthews. _I'm younger than most of the Chiefs of Staff, too._

But he knew that it didn't matter. When admiral Paeta had officially given him command, Yang had, according to the rules, filled in his role and thus held the temporary rank of vice admiral until such time as he was relieved. And Paeta, he knew, wouldn't be returning to command anytime soon with his injuries.

He was, he mused to himself as he saluted back, in complete control of the fleet. He couldn't find any bit of his being that found the idea even remotely fun. Even casting aside the crisis, command was a lot of paperwork and had the type of pressure no sane man could like in his opinion.

"At ease. Let's get on with this," he said as he took his place at the head of the table. He turned to Matthews politely. Of all of them, Matthews had been the most despondent. "Commodore, I received your message. You said that we've finally fully accounted for the entire fleet."

"Yes sir, we believe so. Captain Murai will explain in detail." With that, Matthews nodded to the severe-faced man, who stood up with a data pad, reading from it in calm, almost cold voice.

"According to the latest data, we can say with confidence that the Second Fleet has lost thirty-two percent its warships, the Fourth Fleet eighty percent, and the Sixth Fleet sixty-eight percent, totalling roughly sixteen thousand, seven hundred ships. A fifty-eight percent material loss."

"And that's not counting the ships that'll likely be scuttled because of widespread damage." Commodore Tran interjected.

"Yes, sir. We estimate that at least one quarter of the ships will receive that treatment. Possibly a third."

There was silence for a moment while everyone absorbed just how badly they had been beaten. Finally, Attenborough spoke, rather reluctantly.

"What about personnel losses." He asked, and everyone stiffened slightly, Yang included. This was the part they liked the least. Even Murai looked even more severe than usual.

"Given our insufficient facilities, we lost more wounded than we perhaps would have in ordinary circumstances. I regretfully must report that we have lost between thirty-seven and thirty-eight percent of the crew, or approximately one point five million deaths."

"One point five million. My home city is one point five million." Commodore Javadi stated in hushed horror.

"What was Headquarters thinking, giving us so few hospital ships?!" Nilsen added.

"We agreed with the plan like everybody else," Fischer said, shaking his head and stroking his moustache, frowning slightly. "This is also on our hands."

Yang nodded. As much as he liked Murai's analytical ability – which had gotten him out of trouble years in the past – he saw that commodore Fischer had a head on his shoulder, one that showed in how he had masterfully regulated the confused forces and forged solid lines from them.

"Is that all, captain Murai?" Yang asked. Murai nodded. "Thank you, captain."

As Murai sat back down, Yang considered his words carefully. "I have received a dispatch from Heinessen. Our forces are to return as soon as possible."

That caused some stir.

"Right now?!"

"The starzone is still not secure, commander."

"What if the Imperial forces take this opportunity to launch a renewed assault?!"

Yang waited until the tumult had died down until he talked again. He might officially be the acting commander of the fleet, but he felt no need to force his authority on these other men. They'd all been through the battle, and deserved some leeway as far as he was concerned.

"As for the Imperial Fleet, scouts have reported that the Imperial forces are still pulling back to Iserlohn Fortress. Even if they did come back, it'd take time to resupply and refurbish their forces."

"By that time, the Eight Fleet will have arrived, and the Ninth is to be sent as backup to make interdict further enemy aggression. They've been sent at full strength, which means at least twenty-five thousand ships." _And more sensible commanders if admirals Appleton and Al Salem's reputations are to be trusted._

He scratched his head, coming up on the item from the dispatch that he liked the least. Who it came from only made it worse.

"Furthermore, they want us back quickly so that we may be… congratulated for our victory."

They stared at him, then at each other. Attenborough, who had already read the dispatch with Yang, couldn't help but left out a scoff of pure disdain. Dismay and confusion was clear on every face. Even Murai seemed more than a little perplexed. Murai's commander, however, had gone apoplectic as Yang made his comment.

"What?!" he bellowed, and all eyes focused on Matthews. "Our victory?! Are they kidding?!"

"Sir…" Murai began, but Matthews wouldn't stop. The man's eyes, which had already looked rather dead to yang, seemed to lose focus as the man let go of his anger.

"This isn't a victory! Not by any damn stretch of the imagination! We came here like arrogant idiots, based our plan on something that the Imperials have had just as much time as us to study, and we got our asses handed to us by a damn greenhorn kid. I don't care how smart Lohengramm is! It's our fault! We were stupid!"

"We lost so many men! Men we shouldn't have lost! Because we were too blind!" Matthews banged his fist on the table as the others looked on in worry. The guards made to go in the distraught commodore's direction, but Yang stopped them with a gesture. "Blind, stupid, and panicked! And the damn government, they, they… they want to…" he then seemed to realize where he was, and shame replaced the anger.

"I…am sorry. I went too far, ladies and gentlemen." He turned to look at Yang. "Commander, may I be excused?"

"Of course," Yang nodded. "And don't worry, commodore. It wasn't that far from what a lot of us are thinking, I'm sure." _That man's cracking, _he thought, _this fight got to him badly. Can't blame him. Maybe we're the crazy ones to take all this so calmly._

Matthews nodded, rose, gestured for the rising Murai to remain where he was. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he strode out of the room. An awkward silence followed the departure. Finally, Yang cleared his throat.

"Off the record, I'll say I agree with him, if not in those words."

"On the record, they can know I think it's a load of crap." Attenborough quipped with a bitter grin. Bitter and awkward chuckles followed the remark, and some of the tension ebbed away.

"No matter the feelings we may have on the matter," Murai said, "We have to follow orders."

"All too true, although I feel that very few in the fleet will find any cause to celebrate." Fischer noted.

Nobody could refute that.

"Alright, then." Yang said, "Orders are orders, I guess. Prepare the fleet for a final check. We'll leave in twenty-four hours."

They acknowledged the order, and the meeting was adjourned.

It was only when he returned to the quiet of his quarters that Yang Wen-li let go of his control and continued to mourn for the loss of a dear friend, as well as rage against the absurdity of his orders. Such, he had learned soon after his father died, was the way to survive in the world.

* * *

**January 10, Universal Calendar 796**

**Strategic Planning Centre, Planet Heinessen**

"Frederica, have you heard?"

A woman with brown hair and eyes, who people would generally agree was quite a beauty despite her often serious air, stirred at the sound of her name, looking up from her computer workstation. Something in the way she had filed the last twenty items bugged her, and so she had been intent on redoing the entire column before being hailed.

The voice belonged to Zoe Philips, of course. Only Zoe could sound so completely upbeat while in the most trivial area of the Strategic Planning Centre. The bright blue haired woman – Greenhill was certain that she tinted it, there was no way this could genetically be natural – was leaning over from her own workstation, a wide smile on her face.

Amused despite her workload, Greenhill turned back to her work. "If you're asking, it means you think I probably haven't heard it."

"_Have_ you heard it?"

"Have I heard _what_, Zoe?" she asked. Unless she asked directly, her friend would be coy and dance around the issue.

"Your beau's coming back to Heinessen."

That hit home, as well as Zoe's giggle, and she flushed as she realized her friend could only mean one person. Despite the fact that she had had brief flings here and there, there was only one man she talked enough about that the smug line could be used with it.

"Zoe, don't start using that language around here, what if one of the others…" she started, looking around.

"Oh, get over it. Stevens and Markov are on break for a while still, it's just the two of us." Zoe walked to her and put her arm around her. "Try and tell me you're not a little excited, though! The guy that the best of the Class of 94 crushes on."

"Second best. I was salutatorian, Zoe."

"Yeah, right, everybody from the year knows that's because you got sick right when they had one of the major shooting range tests. And he beat you by, what, one point?"

"One point three, to be exact."

"You're evading the question, Miss Perfect. You happy the Hero of El Facil's coming back with fanfare?"

Well, the news couldn't displease her, and Zoe knew that quite well. She owed the man her freedom without a doubt, and arguably her life.

Adolescence had made her adopt a brave front, but even with that, she had actually been as frightened as everybody else when the Empire had punched through Alliance defenses and were ready to conquer her mother's homeworld of El Facil, a small colony world on the frontier.

She could remember what happened over seven years past like it was yesterday. The news of the Imperial approach. The failed defense by the Stazone's assigned defense fleet. The panic as the Galactic Empire appeared at their doorstep. Her ability to memorize details was a curse in that instance, as she could see the moments with nearly pinpoint accuracy.

But because of that she also could remember that man very well. A young lieutenant Yang, looking barely out of the Academy – she learned later that he'd graduated scarcely a year earlier – thrust into the undesirable job of taking care of the needs and fears of three million frightened civilians.

Honestly, he should have cracked under the pressure. It had been ridiculous to send someone so inexperienced to deal with such a crisis. It appeared that the commander in charge, a former friend of her father's named Lynch, had intended to leave them to the enemy even then.

But the young Yang hadn't cracked, instead giving orders, getting transports, and coming up with a schedule for evacuation despite mistrust from many he was trying to save, and no help from high-ranked officers. Indeed, she'd even once seen him break up a fight between panicked civilians and stressed enlisted soldiers.

Even when Lynch and his officers had fled, he had stayed, calming their fears, and had managed to lead them away from El Facil and past the enemy lines, back to safe Alliance territory.

The modest but unmistakably courageous young hero quickly earned admiration from the general population, gratitude from her father, and admittedly her girlish infatuation.

Although that had matured even as she entered the Academy herself, he still remained important in her mind. Compared to the often-bragging, inexperienced young men at the Academy, he was on another level entirely. And that, she had to admit, made them mostly seem childish or stale, and had made her romantic forays rare.

"So what about him? All I heard was that the fleet had been hurt at Astarte. But that's on all the channels. As official as can be."

"Frederica, sometimes I don't get it. Isn't your dad the Chief of Staff to Admiral Sitolet?"

"I'm not privy to inside information because of my father, Zoe. And I don't go sniffing information like you." Greenhill countered.

"That's a pity. So you didn't hear."

"Obviously. So tell me."

"Looks like we lost worse than the media know. Much, much worse." She said seriously, then the smirk returned, "And then I heard dear, dear Yang saved everyone's bacon. He's due to arrive soon. Guess they'll spin as the battle's hero. "

She put her face nearer, grinning. "So. Wanna go check him out when he comes down planetside?"

She thought about it as Zoe returned to her post. It was tempting. Very tempting. She had stopped seeking her father for information about Yang, even though he had worked with him several times recently, when the older Greenhill had started to give him wry looks and knowing smiles. She didn't want to seem like a groupie. She just found Yang interesting. Was that so bad?

And really, if she felt like seeing what a guy who once saved her was up to, it was still her own business, right?"

"When did you hear they were due to arrive?" she finally queried her friend.

* * *

**January 16, Universal Calendar 796**

**Shuttle Z-002372, in orbit of Planet Heinessen**

The trip had been uneventful, Yang was at least happy about that. As they had travelled deeper into Alliance territory, they had been able to let the people who needed better medical care than the fleet could provide at bases and dedicated hospital ships.

Their damaged forces had also been taken care of by the different shipyards, although some ships had barely limped their way home, and would likely be scavenged for spare parts and then scrapped.

All of it a calculated move. Most of the media would be focused on the fleet as they arrived in orbit of Heinessen proper. It meant that the ships would be those still having either minor damage or no damage at all. Partly to reassure the people, partly to look good.

Onboard the shuttle taking him down to Edwards Space Port, Attenborough found the need to complain about that a bit.

"The media circus is already starting, eh?" he said, lifting his hands up, although careful with the left one. The medical teams had taken care of his arm, but it was still pretty sore.

"Can't be helped. Unlike the Galactic Empire, the Alliance is pretty media-heavy. One of the elements that make up democratic society." Yang replied, eyes closed, enjoying the respite between commanding the fleet and the uncomfortable moments he was probably going to spend down on the planet.

"Media and reality. Not always the same thing." Attenborough mused, "The government is censoring a lot of information. Sometimes, I think they're going way too far. What are they afraid of, anyway?"

"Like most people in power: they're afraid of losing power."

"Which means they'll use you for all they can, won't they?"

He sighed. "That's also part of my pay, I suppose. I'll have to cope."

The rest of the trip down to the planet continued in relative silence, and Yang took the opportunity to take a quick nap.

As he came out of the shuttle, he realized that it'd be even worse than he had imagined when he saw the banners and sign and cursorily read a few of them.

Many of them were neutral, with 'Welcome Home' and 'Our Proud Soldiers'. Those he could take. Banners that had his name were a bit less endearing to him, as were those which had his old nickname 'Hero of El Facil'.

What got to him, however, were those banner that's gave him the nickname 'Hero of Astarte'. He could only stare at those for a moment, dumbfounded. Where had _that_ come from? Hero? Hero how?

He fought it down mentally, put it at the back of his mind, waved once at the cheering crowd. And they roared in jubilation. His heart sank a bit. What news had these people been fed, anyway?

He walked down the stairs, and then down the alley of saluting soldiers. He was first this time, the commanding officer of what remained of the Second Fleet. As such, he had a perfect view of the knot of military higher-ups and civilians VIPs awaiting him.

He spotted the tall, well-built, black-skinned figure of fleet admiral Sitolet, the Joint Forces Commander and highest-ranked officer in the entire military, and was somewhat heartened. He felt even more comforted when he saw admiral Greenhill beside him. Both of these men were among the small circle of officers he truly liked.

With them was the white, haired, pasty-faced Lobos, his rotund physique quite at odd with the two previous men he'd looked at. The Space Fleet Commander and de facto the second-highest ranking officer in the military, the man did _not_ belong in the circle of officers he liked, or even respected. The few encounters where he'd seen Lobos at work at been… rather appalling.

But that was nothing next to the man leading the civilian delegation, the man waving and smiling to the flashes of photographers and cameras alike. A man who seemed completely at home in what Yang always saw as unabashed self-promotion.

The man's name was Job Truhnicht, and he happened to be the Chief Minister of the Ministry of Defense, the second-most powerful seat on the governing Alliance High Council save for the Council Chairman. And even then, people wondered if it wasn't the most powerful seat, period, especially with Truhnicht there.

Physically, the man looked perfect. Tall, well-built, with a well-proportioned face, perfectly combed brown hair, rows of perfect teeth and a tailored suit that likely would have cost Yang a month's salary, he looked like a former movie start who'd perfectly acclimated himself to middle-age.

All of which wouldn't have mattered all that much had Yang ever sensed anything remotely _real_ about the man. But he had never managed to see it, and their one face-to-face meeting with the man had convinced him of one thing: that man was a snake, and not of the benign kind. This was a man made up of something dangerous.

No, he really didn't have any sort of liking for Job Truhnicht. That he happened to be his duly-elected boss made the entire thing even more galling.

"Ah! Commodore Yang!" said Truhnicht as if he was welcoming a long-lost friend. He grasped Yang's friend and pumped it firmly. "You are truly a hero for your actions at Astarte. Thanks to you, another blow had been dealt against the evil of the despotic Galactic Empire! It is because of young men like you that our righteous democracy will one day prevail over tyranny!"

All of it sounded like an admittedly well-rehearsed speech. _Does he even believe what he's saying? _But the Chief Minister's eyes were opaque pool. Whatever the man was truly thinking, Yang wasn't meant to know of it.

"I'm honoured, sir." Was all Yang said. With the flashes, the hurrahs, he felt overwhelmed. This sort of public wasn't something he was used to, while the politician in front of him soaked the attention as if he couldn't get enough.

He'd seen this once before, back when he'd come back to El Facil. But he'd been less jaded then. Maybe, because of this, the entire thing annoyed him more now. He barely stopped himself from flinching away when Truhnicht, still holding his hand, put his arm around Yang's shoulders as if the two were the dearest of friends.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Hero of Astarte!" he crowed, and the reporters and photographers went crazy. Yang felt as if the entire Alliance was watching him, which was likely not that far from the truth.

He wondered if that was what the bug felt under the microscope.

He then went to salute Chief of Staff Greenhill, whose gaze was far warmer and more human than Trunicht, then went on to Space Fleet Commander Lobos, who felt disinterested and only gave basic congratulations.

Then he went to Joint Forces Commander Sitolet, who seemed to be looking at him with some amusement. He saluted.

Sitolet saluted back. "Commodore Yang."

"Fleet Admiral Sitolet."

The two men shook hands, and the far larger Sitolet leaned forward a bit. "Tiresome, isn't it, the spotlight?"

"Yes sir." He admitted readily, "I thought I'd gotten used to it after El Facil, but…" he shrugged.

"Well, maybe I can help you a bit, this time." Sitolet started leading Yang away, while gesturing to Greenhill. As the reporters swarmed in with mikes and other devices, buzzing with questions, lights flashing, the Chief of Staff smoothly placated them.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said evenly, "Commodore Yang and his men are tired, and we ask that you give them so peace until they are rested. Afterwards, I am certain they will be better ready to answer your questions."

The reporters tried to press on. Greenhill denied them. Some tried to move towards Yang, but Greenhill and his men smoothly blocked them. Yang spotted Sitolet grinning even as he brought him through the terminal to a place guarded by several soldiers. The brouhaha receded somewhat behind them.

"Don't worry. Admiral Greenhill has seen worse than those jackals. He'll take care of them."

Of that he had no doubt. Admiral Greenhill had always been one of the officers who exuded competence, a rarity in Yang's book.

"Thank you for this, sir." _If only for taking me away from the Chief Minister of Defense, _he mentally added.

It was as if the older man could read his thoughts. "Anything to make Truhnicht's day a bit more difficult. That being said, what they're saying isn't untrue."

"Respectfully, sir, such as which part?"

"The one that calls you a hero, for instance."

"Sir, I respectfully must disagree. All I've managed to do is force the enemy to back off. All I did was survive. There's nothing great or heroic in survival." _And all of that didn't save my friend. Oh, Jessica, have they told you already. Probably. I want to help, but what can I do? What can I possibly say?!_

They continued walking in silence. Yang wondered if there was an end. He decided didn't care at the moment. Anything was better than the circus he had just left.

"If you hadn't done you best to survive back then," Sitolet asked at last, "How many casualties would the Second Fleet have suffered?"

"Sir?"

"Would more men have died without your intervention than with it?"

"Admiral, if I may, that's pure speculation."

"Humour me. What do you think?"

Yang frankly didn't want to think about it. The more he thought about the battle, now, away from the pressures of command, the more he remembered that his oldest friend was dead, and that his fiancé was bound to have found out. It was starting to obsess his thoughts.

But a voice within him, which sometimes sounded like Lapp, sometimes like Julian, and sometimes like another friend named Alex Cazerne, forced him to consider. It told him the honest answer to give for the query.

"On pure speculation, if the fleet hadn't been coordinated, probably at least two thirds lost." He replied.

"That's roughly two hundred thousand man lost that were saved because of your actions," Sitolet pointed out, "Even if you don't see yourself as a hero, their families and friends do."

Yang nodded wearily. He didn't quite see it that way, but that angle helped to deal with the currents of guilt that were now starting to swell, if only a bit. Finally, they came to a backdoor.

"Commodore Yang, rest for now," The fleet admiral said seriously, his steady eyes unflinching, "But not too long. The fleet will need you." He gestured towards the door.

"There's a car there to take you home. Rear Admiral Cazerne has already taken steps that there be no reporters around your home. He's waiting for you there, with his family and your ward."

Yang nodded again. Cazerne understood a lot of things. Had for years. He likely understood what was bound to come once he went home. He saluted his superior.

"Thank you, sir, for this. I know this might lead to problems with the Ministry of Defense."

"Don't worry about that. I told you, I don't dislike rankling the Chief Minister from time to time. Soon, however, I might have you do something for the Fleet."

They parted on that. Yang knew that the people in charge would use him at some point, for good or ill. He also knew that Truhnicht wouldn't like his sudden disappearance. But at that moment, he didn't care. He wanted to be home.

To mentally regroup. And cope.

* * *

**January 16, Universal Calendar 796**

**Greenfield Junction, Planet Heinessen**

"As you well know, commodore Yang took control of the Second Fleet to brilliantly defeat the Imperial invasion when the enemy forces surprised and damaged the Fourth and Sixth Fleets, essentially knocking them out of the fight."

"Many here at Edwards have commended Yang's efforts as commander, citing him as a driving force in the Fleet and a very important advisor in Fleet tactical operations. Chief Minister Truhnicht himself announced him as the Hero of Astarte and promised Yang would be involved in future operations in order to defeat the Galactic Empire."

"Commodore Yang himself, citing fatigue from the long battle, left early with Joint Forces Commander Sitolet, ostensibly to discuss further military operations. He was unable to comment."

"Laura Coleman, HNN, Edwards Space Port."

"Thank you, Laura. Commodore Yang, twice Hero to the Alliance. In other news, the new road project on Planet Shampool appears to have reach technical problems. The project, now on its second year…"

Alex Cazerne clicked off the wall television set with some disgruntlement. There was nothing there that he didn't know, and a lot there that miss Coleman didn't. So far, details from Astarte had been carefully filtered through the Star Fleet Press Relations Division.

Although not totally untrue, there were many omitted parts that allowed the civilian media to think that the battle had gone much better than it actually had.

The Fourth and Sixth Fleets, for instance, weren't simply damaged, but had been nearly decimated. With the Eleventh Fleet still rebuilding from the Third Battle of Tiamat, and the damage generally incurred during Fourth Tiamat, the Star Fleet had limited resources to give to those damaged fleets.

And he knew enough through his own job at the Resources Division and his personal knowledge of Yang's personality that it had likely been a last-minute gamble that saved what was left of Second Fleet. Had Yang been in real control of fleet operations, and his ideas given true consideration, he was fairly certain the debacle might have been averted altogether.

But the media would never learn how strained the Fleet had become lately. That it could still defend Alliance space, but that more than that was becoming harder and harder. That unless something changed the entire direction the war was going, that unless something could be done for the flagging, overburdened economy, the war wouldn't last another decade.

_Another decade_? _Didn't know I was still an optimist at heart_, Cazerne told himself wryly. Suddenly, a feline grunt of what seemed to be mild indignation distracted him from the news and how it clashed with his own knowledge.

He saw that his younger daughter, Patricia, had taken hold of Julian's cat, a mixed-race tabby that went by the ironic name of Admiral. Initially belonging to Julian's grandmother, the young man had taken the cat with him as he became Yang's ward, and the cat had acclimated itself quite well to his new surroundings.

Unfortunately, those surroundings meant times when his daughters would get their hands on it. Although Charlotte, nearly six years old, had started to show restraint – due in no small part to her all but worshipping her mother as well as having her basic kind nature – Patricia was only two and half and the concepts of 'petting' and 'hitting' were still not _completely_ different.

As such, Admiral was being cheerfully manhandled and was starting to lose patience with the small, brown-haired human, mistreating it right there in the middle of its living room.

"Patricia, honey, don't be rough to Admiral. Remember, he won't be your friend if you hurt him." He said. It got through to his daughter enough that she hugged the poor cat, telling it they were friends for life. Admiral, for its part, seemed less than enthused at being held.

He sighed, finding it fortunate that the cat was almost entirely benign and wasn't one to attack. As he mused on that, his wife and Yang's young ward came out of the kitchen – Julian's almost exclusive domain, as Yang had never had an interest in cooking – with utensils and wares to set the table. From the kitchen itself, Cazerne smelled good things. He got up to help.

People who said that interest in a person waned as year followed year of married life had never asked Alex Cazerne his opinion. Every time he looked at his wife, Hortense, the love he felt for her was as great, perhaps greater, than it had been at its beginnings.

At thirty-three, Hortense Cazerne's beauty was unmarred, and having children had only deepened her natural kindness. It had been her idea to go see Yang and give him friendly comfort. Cazerne exchanged a wry smile with her – she usually had to drag him out to help with setting the table – and focused on Julian, who was having a discussion about dinner with his older daughter.

Even though Julian had only been there two years, it was like he'd been there forever. Yang, reluctant at first, had quickly bonded with the younger man, perhaps in part because he understood the loneliness of having no family. Since then, Yang had started imparting what he had learned in life and Julian, for his part, had made Yang's home life much more structured than the chaos it had been.

"Are you sure that there won't be any reporters lurking around the place?" the young man queried.

"There won't be. I'm certain the PR Division's going to do an excellent job keeping them away."

"Thoughtfulness from the military?" Hortense mused.

"Hardly that. They just don't want Yang giving away the real story of what happened at Astarte. Bad for the Fleet's public image and all that," he replied, "And Yang's both too naïve and too honest to sugar-coat."

As they finished setting the table, they heard the unmistakable noise of a car coming up the driveway. The Hero of Astarte had arrived home at last.

It wasn't the first time that the Cazernes had organized something for Yang. Although Attenborough might not have the best of relationships with his own father, he still had them for support and went to see them when back from a particularly telling operations.

Yang, without parents and with what seemed to be an inability for romantic relationships, had been completely alone. And so, it had become tradition, even after Julian had arrived, to put together a get-together dinner, to put the terrors of the battlefield to rest, if only for a while.

The lonely, intellectual younger man had always taken the opportunity happily, and tonight was superficially the same. He still greeted them warmly, with an awkward smile, kissing Hortense on the cheek, hugging the two girls, shaking hands with both Cazerne and Julian.

Only it wasn't the same. Someone who had sometimes been there – two someones in fact – weren't present. They hadn't always participated, but their presence had always been particularly appreciated by Yang.

But this time one of them would never participate in anything ever again. As for the other one…

"I called her," Hortense said, clearly understanding Yang's look, "But she declined. She said she had too much on her mind, that it was too soon."

That hit him; Cazerne would have been a fool to miss it. But aside from a fleeting look of pain, nothing showed on Yang's face. He had become a master at keeping hurt and grief where people wouldn't see it.

"I see. I can't blame her." He said, and then scratched his head, "Well, I'm just going to check on something and change, then I'll be right with you, alright?"

Julian looked at him go, troubled. He hadn't missed the look, it seems. Cazerne looked at his wife, and she nodded silently. "Dinner'll be ready in thirty minutes," she noted, and quickly took her two daughters in hand, giving them tasks to help her. Only Julian stayed, indecisive. Cazerne put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. This is just one thing he's not ready to burden you with. He will eventually." He said, and the young man nodded, still clearly troubled. Again, Cazerne was amazed by the genuine bond of affection, almost familial in nature, which the two had created.

Seizing a bottle of Braddock Brandy, liquor he and Yang both appreciated, he also took two glasses and made his way to Yang's office. He had known that something like this would happen. He'd have been more concerned if this hadn't.

Yang's study was his sanctuary. Julian, of course, had full access to it as he had to the rest of the house. But it was an unwritten rule that, when Yang was engaged in important work to the Fleet, he wouldn't enter. Those moments didn't happen that often, but it did happen enough that the young man didn't go through the room as often.

As such, this was the only room that was somewhat messy. Papers, books and datapads no longer littered the floor like they had before Julian came to live in the house, but there were unruly piles of random data here and there, some of which Cazerne wasn't entirely sure the boy should ever see.

Yang was seated in front of his desk, looking at his personal computer. Or at least in its general direction. Sunlight filtered through the window, showing a calm, quiet Heinessen day that the young commodore probably couldn't appreciate. Cazerne took a spare chair, and closed the door, locking it behind him. No way were his daughters going to see him drink.

The black-haired man who had saved his fleet only slightly turned his head in his direction before returning to study a blank, unpowered screen. Cazerne sat nearby, and opened the brandy. Wordlessly, he poured each of them a glass. Not too much, just enough to feel it.

Then he waited. Although not for long.

"I lost my oldest friend." He said.

"Yeah. He was a good man." Cazerne noted, and waited again.

"I loved him like a brother. Despite the distance, despite the… other thing."

Cazerne didn't ask about that one. Even a fool would have put two and two together. Yang finally looked at him, and the pain and sadness was unmistakable.

"I couldn't save my friend. I made Jessica suffer because I couldn't run my plans through. Because I shrugged and let them shoot them down.

"Wouldn't have changed anything. The three commanders were known as inflexible. Don't beat yourself over this. You did your best." Cazerne said evenly. It was hardly enough, but what else could he say?

"It's not enough."

"It's all we've got. Jessica'll pull through. So will you."

Yang again fell silent, picking up his glass of brandy, staring at it, before speaking again.

"You know what bothers me the most, Cazerne?" he said, "I lost my friend, and I can't cry. It hurts, but I can't cry. Like with my father. No matter how it hurts, I can't cry. Who the hell doesn't cry when he loses loved ones?"

"Yang, as far as I'm concerned, you're crying right now. It's not a question of tears or not, it's whether you feel the loss. You're a survivor, that's all there is to it."

The younger man considered that. The encyclopaedic knowledge, the genius ability to come up with strategies, all these clearly came up short. There was nothing in historical facts to help here. This was something one needed to deal with slowly, and they both knew it. Yang's face contracted in grief; he put a hand on his face.

Cazerne waited. There was nothing else to do.

Finally, the Hero of Astarte, also known as the Hero of El Facil, gave a shuddering sigh, put his hand away from his face, and lifted his glass.

"To Jean Robert Lapp, another victim of this senseless war. I know I'll always miss him."

The older man nodded, lifted his own glass. They drank.

They didn't talk again until they went to dine with the others, spending the time in quiet contemplation and the mutual understanding of a grieved man and his friend.

* * *

**AN: To readers who might wonder: don't worry, there will be Galactic Empire POVs eventually. It's just very important to fully flesh out the Alliance's situation, since it's central to the story.**


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**Ethical Conflicts**

_The Battle of Astarte had been a disaster for the Free Planets Alliance. Out of forty thousand ships, only fourteen thousand remained in serviceable order and most of the ones not lost altogether were ordered scrapped within days of their arrival to the massive shipyards that produced and serviced the Alliance's Star Fleet._

_This was a material drain that the Alliance government simply couldn't afford anymore. The long war had been a near-constant drain on resources, both economic and human, and the last four years had seen the Alliance lose horrendously on the front lines. Astarte was simply the last straw._

_But more important than the material costs were the costs in human lives. One and a half million Alliance officers, non-commissioned officers and enlisted men had lost their lives, while even more had been wounded, in a battle that had been promised to be an easy victory. The public uproar over the result was enormous._

_The government attempted to mitigate matters by pushing the war-hero, Yang Wen-li, back into the spotlight, but even that wasn't enough. Although Yang himself garnered widespread adoration for curtailing the disaster, many in the media retorted that it had still happened._

_In order to alleviate the social tension, it was decided that a great memorial would be held in the mustering stadium inside the Strategic Planning Center. There, Job Trunicht worked to calm the fanned flames of outrage, intent on portraying the dead as heroes, the horror of defeat as a setback, and doubts as a thing keeping the Alliance from achieving victory._

_Over the last fifteen decades, it had been used in many different forms and ways by two sides, Alliance and Empire, too many times to bother to count._

_Job Trunicht knew how to work a crowd better than most, and on February 8, of year 796 of the Universal Calendar, he once again showed that, if some could question his character and commitment, none could question his ability to instil passion whenever he spoke. He had risen to his position for a reason, and promptly reminded the masses of that._

_However, on that particular day, things wouldn't quite go the way it had in the past._

* * *

**February 8, Universal Calendar 796**

**Heinessenpolis Suburbs, Planet Heinessen**

Even though he didn't live all that far from Silverbridge Street, Attenborough was certain that he had already broken at least three distinct laws as he drove his hovercar to get his friend. The Venk-22, a phezzani hovercar that was his pride and joy while not serving in the military forces, had electronic redundancies to minimize accidents, but it remained a miracle no one had arrested him or at least called the police on him.

And if things were going the way he and Yang thought it was, it was only the beginning of a very stressful ride.

When he arrived, Yang was waiting for him. Like himself, he had put on his military uniform. If push came to shove, it might be necessary for them to use Yang's standing to get either the police to help. Or to get the police to let them go. Whichever worked best.

Yang clambered into the backseat, his usually calm face lined with worry. "Go." Was all he said at the moment.

Attenborough floored it.

"Could you tell me one thing?" he asked, and continued before Yang could ask, "Could you please tell me what the Hell she was thinking?"

Yang sighed as they sped through the streets. "That's the thing. She wasn't thinking, I guess."

Attenborough had to agree with that. He had been watching the memorial at home. Although he could have been there in person, he simply wasn't in the mood to stomach the faux-patriotism and ideological drivel that the Chief Minister of Defense could spew from that close. Consequently, he'd stayed home.

Trunicht had been true to form, reminding the tens of thousands of mourners that their son and daughters had died for the cause of freedom. The speech had started to drone a bit in his ears, and he had gone to dress up in his uniform, intending to go catch up on some paperwork after the event was over.

Then the event in question took a dramatic turn as Jessica Edwards turned up, walking down the main aisle. The sight alone had been enough to give Attenborough chills. He'd seen that look before on many people, and Jessica had worn it when he and Yang had unsuccessfully attempted to talk to her at Lapp's gravestone.

It was the look of someone going to war, and who didn't particularly care if there was a lot of collateral damage. A grief-stricken person with a chip the size of Heinessen on her shoulder.

Although she had started pleasantly enough, Jessica's tone had quickly turned cold and abrasive as she began to question Trunicht, his politics and the fact that, for all of his talk of bravery and military prowess, he'd never served in any branch of the armed forces.

She had continued with attacks on the wealthy strata of Alliance society, which was able to avoid military service. Implications of cowardice started to be levelled, and Edwards had then been forcibly taken away from the chamber.

Although he didn't agree with the way she had managed it, Attenborough admitted to himself that he had been quite happy to see Trunicht at a loss, if only for a few moments. It was a moment worth cherishing in his memory.

However, he knew enough about Trunicht and whatever backers he had to get the amount of trouble Jessica had gotten herself into. He had immediately called Yang, and then had sped to get him.

They sped through the streets, and into the main highway, ploughing headlong towards the Strategic Planning Center. Luck was on their side: nobody arrested them on the way there. During that time, the two men didn't chat. Yang was particularly tense, not that anyone in the know could have blamed him.

It was on the road between the Center's main buildings and the edifice where the main maglev train linked the military headquarters to the outside world that they saw a group of people. They quickly realized that their hunch had been correct. Jessica was there, and was surrounded by several men in modified riot gear and wearing distinctive masks. He knew who they were at a glance: the Patriotic Knights Corps, simply known by many as the PKC.

The Free Planets Alliance's model was always based on democracy, although how democratic the current nation was happened to be a matter of philosophical debate. As a democracy, it allowed for a certain level of dissent and a certain level of extremism outside the mainstream channels of its society.

There had been nationalistic extremists and their assorted groups since even before the war began, but none of them ever had the reputation that the PKC had. The organization itself had existed for at least ten years, perhaps more under different names. But over the last two or three years, it had become a particularly violent group.

There were several people in the military who believed that someone in the Department of Defense, perhaps Trunicht himself, was now funding the group as a sort of underground tool to strong-arm or silence dissident voices. There was no proof, of course, but Yang, Attenborough, Caserne and the late Lapp had been strong believers in that theory.

He saw half a dozen of them surrounding Jessica, electrified sticks in hand, their intent clear, and Attenborough saw red. While he didn't think Jessica's verbal tirade had been tactful to other mourners, nothing, absolutely nothing, warranted the crass case of thuggish bullying he was seeing.

Knowing a physical confrontation put Yang and himself at a severe disadvantage, he elected to run his hovercar into the thick of them. The men, intent upon their prey, were surprised by the sudden assault and scattered in fear and shock, backing away. He smirked. _Just like any bully, they're brave only when they're in full control._

He stopped his vehicle right next to Jessica, and Yang opened the door and hurriedly helped Jessica inside. Attenborough looked outside, and saw that the men were mentally getting over their surprise, especially when they saw that their intended prey was getting away. Before they could fully regroup, however, he turned around and sped off.

The green-haired officer looked at the receding group in his rear-view mirror and sighed. This had been a close one. "Now we're seeing combat even at home," he noted to his passengers in the back.

"Interesting times." Was all that Yang said to that.

After making sure that Jessica was unharmed, silence fell in the hovercar as it returned to Heinessenpolis, albeit at a more reasonable pace.

About midway through the return trip, Jessica stirred. "Yang, you must think I'm a bitch, don't you? I acted that way in front of all those people who were dealing with their own pain and grief."

"It's alright," Yang mused in return, "That was something that needed to be said.

_But maybe not by making that kind of a scene,_ Attenborough thought. He knew better than the voice that sentiment. Besides, even if he did, he doubted it would help the situation any.

After roaming around the city a bit, they decided that Jessica's hotel was likely unsafe. If they had the gall to attack a woman so near military headquarters, a hotel and its staff wouldn't even slow them down. Attenborough's home was also likely out for the same reason. Ultimately, Yang suggested his house, theorizing that it, located in a military neighbourhood for high-ranking officers, would make the PKC think twice before doing something rash.

Attenborough had his reservations about that, but it remained the best option short of going to a military base proper. And that was too complicated at the moment.

The return and arrival was superbly uneventful, until a clearly alarmed Julian welcomed them with news that men had arrived. It seemed that the PKC had followed them after all. So much for safety.

Next to a vehicle that clearly resembled the ones used to distribute messages, propaganda and songs in the streets, a dozen or so men in read hoods and white masks stood on the other side of the house, just in the street. In the middle of them was one whose hood was purple, clearly the leader.

"Well, this is just perfect." Attenborough groused.

"I wonder if 'ruthlessly invading the privacy of an Alliance citizen' is permitted in the Alliance Constitution." Yang wondered wryly. At that moment, the purple-hooded man began speaking with the aid of a voice amplifier.

"Commodore Yang!" the voice was gruff, clearly hostile, "We are the Patriotic Knights Corps, people who truly love their country! We accuse you! To have become so conceited that you'll get in the way of the motherland's will! We accuse you and find you guilty of unpatriotic conduct!"

_That's rich coming from a masked gang like that, _Attenborough thought. "Why aren't the neighbours helping with this ruckus?!"

Yang shrugged. As usual, being in danger didn't make him lose much of his cool. Attenborough always found himself both admiring his friend and thinking something wasn't quite right with the man at the very same time.

"In this neighbourhood? People know these guys are linked to the Department of Defense. The right of choice, in this case the right not to get involved, is perhaps one of the most important rights granted by our constitution." Yang explained. Jessica looked at him as he said that, and shook her head.

"People like that just warp ideals," she said bitterly.

There was no way around that piece of truth as far as Attenborough was concerned.

At that moment, one of the windows shattered, and a canister-liked object clattered to the ground. It didn't take half a second for Attenborough's training to kick in at the sight. "Get down!" he said, and he promptly fell on the surprised and thoroughly displeased Admiral. Beside him, Julian also dove for cover.

Yang's training had also kicked in, and he fell with Jessica underneath him just as the canister exploded, sending shrapnel into the furniture and walls. The cat, now understandably agitated, tried to escape the scene, and Attenborough kept it still out of training habit. He looked at Yang.

"Demolition grenade?" Yang wondered grimly. Attenborough nodded. They'd been lucky it wasn't full military grade. One of those could have damaged a tank.

Still, to use even low-grade grenades... The PKC was perfectly willing to attack a high-ranking member of the Fleet like Yang. As far as Attenborough was concerned, that made him wonder if the PKC truly was nothing more than a disguised death squad, as some officers surmised it was.

"Then let's treat this like a battlefield." Yang mused, and his voice seemed to have shifted a bit, from the scholar who could talk you through the entire Alliance history without making a mistake, to the cool-headed man who'd kept the Second Fleet together at Astarte. "Julian, give me the controller for the electronics of the house."

In the district, a fire had once broken out, and destroying five houses and killing six people, including an admiral of the Fleet. Because of that, an extensive, not to mention expensive, fire-suppressing system had been built for each house, including a high-pressure hose to keep the worst of the fire at bay. For once, the government's focus on those of power worked to their advantage.

Fortunately, the high-powered hose was on the right side of the house, and Yang quickly activated it to keep the PKC thugs at bay. As their shout of surprise resounded, Attenborough went to Yang's office, and went to the place where he kept his sidearm. Quickly loading it with an energy clip, he rushed back to help. If the PKC managed to enter, he'd make sure to put down as many of the scum as possible.

If it had been a military operation, he had no doubt that this would have been necessary. But he had always doubted that the group had any real military training. They didn't seem to have come in with a coherent plan beyond rushing the house, with no attention paid to flanking them. They also didn't use their greater numbers against them.

Although they couldn't flee outside because of those same numbers, the enemy's sheer ineptitude allowed Yang's shrewd usage of the high-pressure hose forced an effective stalemate. At one point, an enemy tried to use a grenade again, but was pushed back by the water pressure and lost his grip on his weapon, which clattered in the middle of the PKC members, who scattered away from it before it blew.

The deadlocked battle was finally tipped only when sirens were heard in the distance, quickly approaching. Attenborough recognized the sound as that of a fire truck, possibly more. The fire suppression system was most probably linked to an alarm system which alerted the nearest firefighters. He wondered if that was also part of Yang's plan.

With the firefighters would likely be policemen, who'd be unable to ignore the PKC thugs. Likely knowing that the game was up, they piled into their vehicle and sped off in the opposite direction of the sirens. Attenborough and the others slowly walked to the shattered windows, and he looked at the weapon in his hand. He wouldn't need to shoot today, it seemed.

"That was… some excitement," he noted, seeing that the neighbours were now out with the firefighters driving into the street and the PKC gone, "So, now they show themselves. About time!"

"A fight they can ignore if necessary," Yang mused, "A fire's something that can affect all of them. They couldn't ignore it. When it's bigger than we can ignore, we react. Like the Alliance. We may not always like it as individuals, but that doesn't mean we want it to just go up in flames."

At that, Jessica gave Yang a look that Attenborough couldn't quite decipher, opened her mouth, and then looked away, closing it. Julian surveyed the damage to the house and lawn with a critical eye.

"Won't they try again?" the teen asked, "They missed this time, but won't there be a next time?" He realized that Jessica was there at the moment, and flushed. "Sorry, it's just…"

"Its fine, Julian." She replied seriously, "It's a good question. They'll try again, I'm pretty sure of it."

"Yeah. Me too." Yang stated quietly. Firefighters were now spilling over the area, examining the damage, talking with neighbours. Many hands and fingers pointed in their direction, and several firefighters were making their way towards them, likely armed with questions.

"Now what?" was all Attenborough could ask as he watched the scene.

"With all the fuss, this place won't be targeted again tonight. It leaves me a window." His friend muttered, then turned towards him. His face was smiling, but his eyes still had the focus Yang sometimes got when extremely serious about something. "Attenborough, can you drive me to one last place tonight, after I settle things with the fire department and make a few calls?"

The green-haired commanded frowned, then shrugged. "Well, yeah, I suppose. Where to?"

Even with all of the excitement over the evening, Attenborough wasn't ready for the plain answer.

"Chief Minister Trunicht's residence."

* * *

**Trunicht Residence, Heinessenpolis Suburbs, Planet Heinessen**

If there was something Job Trunicht disliked, it was to be bothered late in the evening by visitors. He had never liked them, had never wanted them. Not unless they had something he wanted, or something he could use. To show annoyance, however, was the type of weakness he had learned not to show very early in his political career. It was one of the main reasons he had risen so fast: it didn't do to show any of your cards.

In this case, however, he didn't have much of a choice. The man in front of him was none other than the Hero of Astarte, a military officer who had too much popularity to simply ignore. It forced him to overlook the fact that the same man had neglected to appear at the memorial, forcing Trunicht to make last-minute changes. That hadn't put him in a good mood at all. He'd make this Yang pay one way or another.

But not today, not after accepting to see Yang in his own house. So, pouring himself some good bourbon, he exchanged a few pleasantries and then went straight to the heart of the matter.

"So, commodore Yang. What can I do for you?" He asked in a kindly voice, the voice that always put people at ease.

Yang's rigid, military stance didn't relax one iota. "I'd like you to ensure Jessica Edwards' safety, sir."

"Jessica Edwards?" _The damned, self-righteous bitch that had the gall to spit on me? _"Ah, that unfortunate woman. What appears to be the problem?" _I've got a pretty good idea what it is, of course. My pack of dogs got a bit excited._

"She's being pursued by the PKC." Came the simple answer.

Trunicht did his best to look concerned. He hadn't used the PKC against Edwards; there had been no time to. But there was a part of him that was glad that the woman had gotten some scare in payment for the embarrassment she'd caused him. Insects should remember their place or simply be squashed, after all.

"That's unfortunate. But even as head of the Department of Defense, I don't think I can do much about guys like that," He replied.

"Are you certain there is nothing you can do, sir?" Yang asked, and his eyes squinted slightly.

The man in front of Trunicht was in many ways average. Aside from slightly above-average looks, nothing would make him noticeable in a crowd. Had the man not worn a uniform, few would think of him as military material, much less a high-ranking officer of the Fleet.

This ordinary-looking man didn't budge, didn't threaten, but something suddenly changed. For a moment, the man's eyes became what Trunicht could only call dangerous. It wasn't the look of an ordinary citizen. For a moment, the Chief Minister of Defense felt like he was staring down the barrels of a battleship's main cannons.

He nearly did a double-take. For a fleeting moment, he felt real concern. It was in no way a pleasant experience. That split second made him re-evaluate several things. He sighed. Both to affect a magnanimous stance and to chase away the malaise he had felt.

"Well, far be it for me to let a poor grieving woman go unaided. And I can't turn the Hero of Astarte away," he nodded, "I'll pull a few strings, make a few calls. I'm certain I'll be able to come up with something."

The relief that seemed to create in Yang looked perfectly genuine. It even showed in his voice. "Thank you very much!" Before Trunicht could answer that, he continued, "Now, I won't take more of your time, since the media are waiting."

He blinked. He hadn't seen that one coming. "The media?" _He called the media to make sure I kept to my promise?! That brat…!_

"Yes sir. I'm certain it will be another magnificent moment for you, sir." The man said, and Trunicht was expert enough to hear the slight drawl in the tone. As the politician stood in silent, the military officer saluted.

And then excused himself, turning and walking away towards the door.

_That arrogant little bastard. He plays me, and then just walks away like he's in control?! _It had been a long time since Trunicht had felt this angry. Few politicians would dare act this way, even those from the High Council would know better. As for the Fleet, even Sitolet himself knew some lines couldn't be crossed.

Yang Wen-li had crossed it. Trunicht hoped the man enjoyed his small victory, he wouldn't for long.

In his mind, he remembered several of the plans that had come to his department through Fleet Headquarters. New weapons, new designs… new formations. Some of said formations quite outlandish and, in this case, possibly quite useful.

"Commodore Yang." He said, and the man stopped, turning towards Trunicht. "I have high expectations for you." _Not that you'd find any of them pleasant, but that's what you reap._

When Yang had gone, the door on the other side of Trunicht's private officer opened, and out came one of the PKC who worked directly for him. The foolish man looked shame-faced about the mess he had created. _I am really surrounded only by idiots._

"I'm sorry about all this, sir." He began, but Trunicht cut him off.

"Oh, that's fine. I'm used to taking care of 'heroes'. Leave that woman alone. She's nothing of consequence. Through her, I found someone much more worthy of attention." He took a sip of his bourbon, preparing himself for the media that Yang had called.

_Yang Wen-li, you don't understand the real world if you think you can cross me and just walk away. One shouldn't presume too much. Too bad for you, you could have made it big if you'd chosen the right side to back._

* * *

**ENTRY INTO DIGITAL SANCTUM…**

**CODE… VERIFIED.**

**PATHWAY ESTABLISHED.**

'**HOD' HAS ENTERED THE DIGITAL SANCTUM 10-03-96-1507**

**HOD Is this communication line secure? (15:07)**

**FORSETI Don't worry. It's connected to a satellite system that can be accessed only through certain points. All under our control. Now, what was so important? (15:07 PM)**

**HOD The Department of Defense is in a flutter these days. (15:08)**

**FREYA We have noticed. Who in the Alliance hasn't? And it does seem like they are going to build up a new fleet out of the remnants of the three defeated ones. (15:08)**

**HOD It's more than that. They're building it now. It appears there are plans for a new engagement. (15:09)**

"Eh. Didn't know that. Defense once again playing solo, with not a care in the world about the other Departments. What a great, unified government we have."

**FORSETI That's earlier than SUNNA's latest projections. (15:11)**

**FREYA SUNNA's projections are remarkably logical and usually well-informed. Yet projections they remained. However, my connections are more effective as to information-gathering goes. I have found some interesting things from my contacts. (15:12)**

"Less posturing and more information would be nice, Freya. I don't have all day for this."

**HOD What would that be? (15:14)**

**FREYA That Yang Wen-li will lead the new fleet. Yes, the Hero of Astarte himself, no less than that. Not information you'd find difficult to find, but what's more interesting is the fact that the fleet is not only just a half-strength unit, but that it will be dispatched immediately. (15:14)**

**FORSETI Destination? (15:14)**

**FREYA Iserlohn Fortress, no less than that. (15:15)**

"**Damn. That reeks of an independent political power play. And not one of ours. What a totally unnecessary hassle this is."**

**HOD Is Yang a threat to Trunicht? (15:16)**

**FREYA Everyone is a threat to Trunicht in Trunicht's mind. That's partly what makes him so predictable at times. No, I think the dispatch was ordered early through the Joint Forces Commander's office. (15:18)**

**FORSETI Sitolet's move, eh? Its bold, I'll give him that. If it's a success for some reason, his position in the military'll be greatly strengthened. (15:18)**

**HOD Are the others aware of this? (15:18)**

**FORSETI If that's not the case, they will be soon. A trillion dinars being diverted will make a dent, no doubt. I will be kept busy. (15:19)**

**HOD Will the dispatch prove a problem for the overall plan? (15:19)**

**ENTRY INTO DIGITAL SANCTUM…**

**CODE… VERIFIED.**

**PATHWAY ESTABLISHED.**

'**TYR' HAS ENTERED THE DIGITAL SANCTUM 10-03-96-1520**

"One of the Directors, eh? This is more interesting than usual."

**FORSETTI There's no worry. If it did, we'd already have had a meeting with everyone else. LOKI and TYR would already have taken some measures. I see none here.**

**TYR This, I presume, is about the dispatch. The Alliance economy will be able to absorb the blow no matter what we do, I think.**

**FORSETTI Yes, quite right. A lot of paperwork, but compared to the astonishing costs of Astarte, it's a trifle.**

**FORSETTI Allow me to restate the facts. The Free Planets Alliance has been waging this war for too long in the social and economic sense. To a lesser sense, the Empire as well. Both economies are very close to the breaking points, with high debts on both sides. However, the Alliance's debt is much higher. Yet its economic productivity is higher as well. In short, it copes.**

**FREYA And will it continue to do so?**

**FORSETTI Until it is time for it not to, it will. Myself and others of the House will make certain of that.**

**TYR The subject is closed. LOKI and I are more interested in knowing if there is any news on the leak.**

**HOD No, sir. HEIMDALL is still looking for any lead. Whoever BALDER gave the information to, he or she or they are keeping quiet about it.**

**TYR We may need your networks soon, HOD. Once the leak is found, we may have to plug it permanently and make certain there is no way to open the hole again.**

**HOD I understand.**

'_Sir?'_

"Yes, Miss Johnsen?"

'_I'm terribly sorry, sir, but there is a call from the Department of Finance. They say the Chief Minister urgently wishes to speak with you.' _

"That's not a problem. Give me a moment and you can patch me through."

'_Yes, sir.'_

**FORSETTI I apologize, but I must go. The Department of Finance has called, faster than I expected.**

**TYR Very well. Leben laus das Haus.**

**FORSETTi ****Bis das rechtmäßige werden wiederhergestellt.**

**DECONNECTION COMPLETE. SYSTEM RETURNED TO NORMAL SETTINGS.**

"Patch me through, Miss Johnsen."

'Yes, sir. One moment.'

"… Chief Minister Rebello? I hope you didn't wait too long; I had to close another line of conversation. No, sir, not important at all... a discussion, sir? I see. I am confused; however, there is already a solid payment plan in the works for that dreadful debacle at Astarte…"

"…I understand. Larger cost, you said? At this point, I would need data to see if how we can work something… no sir, that's for certain. We have no need to owe the Phezzani one more cent, I completely agree with you. Perhaps a meeting would be in order. May I invite you to the _Grand Plaza_?"

"…Tomorrow for lunch? Perfect sir. No sir, that's absolutely not a problem, the national economic health is always our top priority. I will have my best with me. Yes, sir… very good, sir. We will find a solution for the problem, I'm certain of it. Yes. A good day to you, Chief Minister… Miss Johnsen."

'_Yes?'_

"Clear my schedule for tomorrow, and have a private table for lunch at the _Grand Plaza_. I will be having a meeting with Chief Minister Rebello."

'_Yes, sir.'_

* * *

**February 15, Universal Calendar 796**

**Strategic Planning Center, Planet Heinessen**

"Commodore Yang. Please report to Fleet Admiral Sitolet's office at fourteen hundred tomorrow."

That was the gist of the message that Yang had been given. The officer who had relayed the order-worded-as-a-request was a relatively pretty woman. He wondered if they used her to deliver news nobody cared to hear, a pretty face and voice to soften bad news. If that was the case, then Yang was especially glad he wasn't a woman, or particularly handsome. One less painful chore to be assigned to.

It was one thing to pretend sickness not to attend the memorial, which had been voluntary. It was another to snub the highest-ranking officer in the Alliance Defense Forces. With Attenborough having been reassigned to the Ninth Fleet two days earlier, and Cazerne at work, Yang had decided to take a cab to headquarters.

As he arrived to the Strategic Planning Headquarters, Yang could admit to himself that it was certainly an impressive symbol of the Alliance's military might.

The skyscraper was actually five immense ones, joined by a central hub. Which, if views from the top, resembled the pentagram that was part of the Alliance flag. Over two hundred years hold and the subject of numerous modernization projects, the place had seen all of the great historical military characters of note walk its halls. Its historical significance was what truly mattered to Yang rather than its military-based propaganda effect.

He made his way up to the office of the Joint Chief, in one of the highest levels, and did his best to calm a brief case of nerves as he presented himself to the secretary precisely five minutes before the appointment.

It wasn't that he feared retribution. A week after the assault on Jessica and then on his house, nothing had come out of his confrontation with Trunicht. Although he knew that the Chief Minister would probably retaliate, what preoccupied Yang was always the same thing: no matter the fact that Sitolet had worked with him as an officer in the past, the fact remained that the man had been Headmaster of the Academy Yang had studied at, and that old habits die hard.

He didn't let any of that show, however, when he was asked to go in at fourteen hundred exactly.

As he entered, he saw Sitolet sitting at his desk, a massively-built, grey-haired, black man whose uniform was adorned by the trappings of his rank and impressive military experience. The man looked pensive, his face showing neither pleasure nor displeasure.

Solemnly standing next to him, to Yang's mild surprise, was none other than Admiral Dwight Greenhill. Slightly younger than Sitolet, his hair greying only with great reluctance, he had a more average physical appearance and an almost quiet presence that hid what Yang knew to be one of the shrewdest minds he had ever met. It was well-known that Greenhill, newly-promoted as Headquarters Chief of Staff, was a diligent man who had no time for stupidity yet was open to intelligent ideas. Yang himself had seen for himself that the man knew when to put his own ego aside. As such, he was one of the few officers Yang completely respected and genuinely liked.

It also meant that whatever he was going to be told was important. Inwardly, he sighed.

He saluted, the gesture of respect not the least bit forced. "Commodore Yang, reporting as ordered."

After the customary salute was rendered, Greenhill calmly indicated one of the chairs. "Please sit down."

There was nothing to do at that but to obey the order-invitation. He had barely been sitting that Sitolet spoke, his deep voice a contrast to Greenhill's softer, quiet one. "So, commodore Yang…" he stopped himself, started again, "No, _rear admiral _Yang."

Yang went very still at that. The inflection of Sitolet's voice at the words had been unmistakable. "A promotion, sir?" was all he felt he could ask.

"Yes. About time, too, wouldn't you say?" the head of the Alliance military mused, "All the paperwork's already taken care of. By noon tomorrow, it'll be official. I won't say congratulations, since I feel you've deserved it for a long time." Besides him, Greenhill nodded slightly.

Yang, for his part, had mixed feelings. On one side, the rank of rear admiral had a substantial pay raise and far greater privileges than the rank of commodore. Yang couldn't dislike that part. It also, however, meant greater responsibilities. Two of the highest-ranking officers of the entire military wouldn't have called him over for simple felicitations.

As if reading Yang's mind, Sitolet continued. "Effective at the same time tomorrow, you'll be officially reassigned. Your new assignment will be command of the Thirteenth Fleet, a new unit being formed as we speak."

Well, _that _was relatively important. Yang had heard enough from Cazerne and from his own contacts that there was the possibility of a rearranging of the Fleet. He hadn't considered he'd be leading one of the numbered fleets. A thought struck him at that point.

"Forgive me sir. Not that I intend to refuse, but isn't command of a numbered fleet reserved for vice admiral rank or above?"

It was Greenhill who answered. "It's a fleet of about six thousand and seven hundred ships, with seven hundred thousand personnel. About half a normal fleet. Given that, your rank of rear admiral is legally possible."

Yang wanted to answer that, but before he could come up with a well-worded reply, Sitolet spoke again. "Its first assignment will be to take Iserlohn Fortress from the Empire."

Despite all of his reserve and self-control, Yang felt cold, and couldn't keep disbelief out of his voice. "Take _that_ fortress with a hodgepodge half-fleet?"

"That's right."

He couldn't help but ask the next question, even though it strained protocol. "Do you even think it can be done?" He belatedly remembered who he was addressing. "Sir?"

Sitolet didn't seem to have noticed the slight breach, leaning back on his leather chair, his face betraying no discomfort, only quiet confidence. "Frankly? If you can't pull it off, nobody can."

_Well, that's very helpful_, he thought a bit sourly.

Iserlohn Fortress. Built over thirty years ago by the Galactic Empire, it had been a constant strategic headache for the Alliance forces. A massive artificial planetoid sixty kilometers in diameter, it sat right in the middle of a narrow zone which could only be navigated through without use of warp engines.

The blocked any assault on the Empire by Alliance fleets, and at the same time guaranteed Imperial supremacy within the aptly-named Iserlohn Corridor. The only viable link between the two nations had generally been in the hands of the enemy for longer than Yang had been alive, with the Alliance having only a marginal presence on their own side of the Corridor.

Because of that, the Free Planets Star Fleet had launched six massive assaults to take the fortress. These all ended up dismal failures, costing the assaulting nation immense numbers of ships and soldiers. Those head-on attacks had failed not only because of the Imperial Fleet, but also because Iserlohn had an enormous energy cannon at its disposal called Thor's Hammer, a weapons capable of destroying hundreds of ships in one shot.

Yang himself had been part of the fifth and sixth attempt. The former had been led by Sitolet, and had only been foiled because the imperial leadership fired the Thor's Hammer through the Imperial Fleet, crippling both fleets and making it a highly pyrrhic victory for the Empire. The sixth, led by current Space Fleet Commander Lobos had been… even less successful.

The new admiral didn't think that the way to take Iserlohn lay in brute force. He'd always had his own ideas about taking the fortress. Still, the idea of trying these with less than seven thousand ships, it was a daunting thing.

"It does seem quite impossible, doesn't it." Greenhill said, cutting through Yang's brooding thoughts. He looked at his superiors in a slight daze.

"It's not like we're unaware of the immense task in front of you," Sitolet added, "There are reasons why we're doing it, though. And if you do succeed, you'll have enough clout that even Chief Minister Trunicht won't be able to touch you."

He blinked, and suddenly he understood.

This was Trunicht's doing. Using his pull, he'd forced the issue and had somehow created this situation. Yang commanding the force sent on that suicidal voyage was the politician's way of getting rid of someone who'd gotten in his way.

_Payback. And if seven hundred thousand die, well, it's an unfortunate statistic. That's one dangerous madman, _he mused in disgust.

So that was politics in the Free Planets Alliance. At this point, it didn't manage to evoke much in the way of shock.

He nodded to himself. _Fine_. He didn't intend to use brute force in the first place, either. His course decided, he rose and, following protocol, saluted. He had accepted the mission.

"I'll do what little I can." He told them. He hoped that would be enough.

* * *

**March 2, Universal Calendar 796**

**Greenhill Residence, Heinessenpolis Suburbs, Planet Heinessen**

"And he went 'But I thought we had something together!' What's up with that?! Two dates and he thinks we're destined. But that's _men_, y'know."

Frederica really couldn't know. As far as she was concerned, men her age were a bit bland, so she had never been much of an addict of the dating game. Her friend Zoe, however, had always been very much the opposite in that aspect of social conventions. The black-haired, spirited woman had always sought men, slept with men, and for some reason had always reported things to Frederica in more detail than was often necessary. Especially if Frederica happened to be at home, like right now.

As she drank coffee in her living room, the younger of the two Greenhills living in the house wondered once more how she and Zoe had become good friends despite some clear differences.

She didn't have to look for that very far. Despite her obsession with men, and her playful attitude, Zoe was a hard worker who had excellent academic aptitudes. At the Academy, she had finished ninth. Outside the Academy, she had been promoted from ensign to lieutenant junior grade barely a few weeks after Frederica. She had her own kind of brilliance, no doubt there.

And, she had to admit, her friend had a knack for brightening up the room. That was always a plus.

"Well, Simon was always a bit… extroverted about his feelings." She replied, and inwardly chuckled to herself as she realized who she was talking to.

"There's extroverted, and then there's downright obsessive!" Zoe retorted, not at all mollified, she leaned forward so suddenly that she nearly dropped her own cup of coffee. "He better not do anything funny after this. I dumped him fair and square!"

Frederica knew better than to point out that the one being dumped tended not to see things that way. It'd only invite a greater display of energy, and she wasn't sure the coffee cup and what was in its immediate vicinity would survive the experience.

Zoe seemed to settle down a bit at that. "So, that's my most recent adventure. What's up with you these days?"

She shrugged. Compared to Zoe's extravagant need for excitement, she was certainly content with quiet time. There were a few men at the Academy who hadn't understood that enough, and had found herself slapped so soundly that their own parents might have felt it. That had been her extravagance back then, and she was quite happy to have no more need to show it.

"If you're telling me you used three whole days off to get ahead on work, I'll beat you with this cushion.

The pitiful level of threat that the small blue cushion Zoe held was enough to make Frederica laugh. Yes, Zoe Phillips could lighten up a room.

"I like the quiet when off-duty."

"You like the quiet when _on_ duty." Zoe sighed a bit exaggeratedly. "Sometimes I worry about you, 'Rica."

"Me?" she retorted in the same way, "I'm not the one having five boys trying to get back with her all the time!"

"That's popularity!"

She was about to retort that it was the type of popularity that got one in trouble more often than not, but before she had the chance to say anything, the vidphone sounded. Refusing to answer it through the TV screen, she walked to the answering device on the near the stairs.

"If its work, refuse. You've done enough overtime, its getting out of hand." Zoe cautioned. Frederica only smiled back and winked, before answering.

It turned out it was someone from work, but not one of her superiors. Rather, this was a man in his thirties, with short brown hair and a relaxed face. He smiled when he saw her, something she had rarely seen commander Lamarre ever do where she worked.

"Hello. Is this Frederica Greenhill?" the way he asked it, he seemed pretty certain of himself about her answer, and had likely asked only out of plain politeness.

"Yes, that's me, sir." She said, saluting. Just from the age, he was very likely higher-ranking. Not that it was much at this point.

"No, no, don't salute. You're off-duty right now, no need to stand on ceremony!" The man said pleasantly. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm rear admiral Alex Cazerne, of the Ressource and Logisctics Department."

A full-blown member of the admiralty. Ceremony or not, she felt glad she had followed her trained instincts. Farther off, she saw Zoe craning her neck, her face a question mark. She barely shrugged back in response. She had no idea what this was all about.

"I know I like to be left alone when on a day off, so I won't take too much of your time, lieutenant," the admiral said, "To make a long story short, Alliance Command has decided upon the formation of a Thirteenth Fleet. Since it's new, a lot of places are being started from scratch. One of the positions is that of adjutant to its commanding officer. Would you be interested in that assignment, Miss Greenhill?"

She gaped for a moment, and saw Zoe mouth, 'say yes, you idiot'. Still, she needed to ask something. "Sir, with all due respect, why me? Surely, there are more experienced officers for the assignment."

Admiral Cazerne gave a strange smile at that. "Yes, well. The commanding officer in question had criteria, and I know said officer well enough that not meeting those criteria would just make a mess," he said, continuing at once, "You fit the criteria and you've been personally recommended. So, are you interested?"

_This is too sudden_, she reasoned. However, the only person who might have 'recommended' her well enough for an admiral of Logistics to call her would be her father. And although being an adjutant could be a lot of chores, it also tended to open doors. Although she didn't hold ruthless ambitions, Frederica knew that to refuse might not look very good on her file.

If it really didn't work out, she figured she'd simply get herself reassigned.

"Yes, sir. I am interested."

This seemed to please the admiral for some reason. "Excellent. That simplifies matters for me immensely. Now, you won't be assigned immediately, as other elements of Fleet assignments must regretfully take precedence. You'll be notified when your reassignment takes effect."

"Understood, sir." She replied dutifully. Inwardly, however, she wondered. The way admiral Cazerne spoke, everything about this Thirteenth Fleet seemed to be rushed forward. There was a strange, ad hoc feeling to it all. "Sir, if I may ask who my commanding officer will be?"

"Of course. The commander of the Thirteenth Fleet will be rear admiral Yang Wen-li."

There was more, of course. Details that admiral Cazerne gave her. She'd recall everything later if it became necessary. After all, if there was one thing that she could always rely on, it was her memory.

But at the moment it didn't matter.

"Why, you lucky girl, you." Zoe teased, smiling.

Frederica, for her part, had no reply.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

**Fateful Meetings**

**March 21, Universal Calendar 796**

**Planet Heinessen, Strategic Planning Center, Lounge**

The officer's lounge at Headquarters wasn't the best place to relax as far as Walter von Schenkopp was concerned. For one, it lacked in alcoholic drinks. Secondly, and far more importantly, there was too great a concentration of egos in the place. When he had downtown on Heinessen, this was far from the top of his list of great spots.

However, he wasn't there for the fun of it. He had submitted his report, along with two of his officers, about a skirmish that had occurred within one of the many hotspots in the Corridor. It had gotten bad enough that the Alliance leadership had decided to cede the planet to the Empire. Since it had been largely a lifeless rock, many of the other field commanders wondered why they'd spent so much blood on keeping it in the first place.

_I ain't about to give myself a headache over trying to understand the brass, _he told himself. So he and his two subordinates had taken a seat and ordered a light repast, along with drinks; neither Blumehadt nor Linz.

He briefly wondered at how different the three of them were, physically at least, and superficially on the psychological sense. Schenkopp, the leader of the regiment, tall, muscular, with wavy brown hair, had a lust for battle that was almost the equal of his lost for female companionship. It was the opposite of his second-in-command, major Reiner Linz, who was blond, the leanest of the three men, and was both much more serious and far less of a womanizer.

And then Blumehardt, who seemed to be stuck in the middle in some way. Younger than the other two men, with pale brown hair, he was slightly more muscular than Linz but came short of Schenkopp. The younger man was passionate but more naïve, and had a nonexistent love-life. This quirk, born out of a personal desire to seek out the perfect love and share everything with her, might have gotten him teased, if not riled, if it hadn't been for the fact that Blumehardt was perfectly capable of fighting anybody in the unit.

Schenkopp knew that those differences were absolutely minor. In the final analysis, Linz and Blumehardt were the best men he had, and the ones he would trust with his life on the battlefield without even the slightest hesitation. There was nothing more important in their field of work.

"You know, I heard that the Hero of Astarte made quite an impression at the ceremony." Linz mused.

"Ceremony?" Schenkopp wondered for a moment. That seemed familiar somehow.

"You know, the one about a new fleet?"

Schenkopp took a sip of his tea. It was a little too sweet. He nodded with a wry smile. "Right, that. Another one of Trunicht's public shows. What _about_ the heroic fleet commander?"

"That's just it. Heard his speech was just a few sentences about not dying so they could enjoy tea. Or stuff like that. Seems the guy didn't prepare a speech or anything." Linz stated.

"Hah. Sounds different enough, that guy."

The regimental commander wasn't as convinced. He'd heard about the Battle of Astarte, of course, although he'd still been returning from the Corridor then. And he also knew, like pretty much everyone in the Alliance likely did, about El Facil. He couldn't fault the man for competence. Even if there had been luck involved, it took balls of steel to get civilians out from under the nose of the Imperial Fleet.

But competent didn't mean the man wasn't out for his own self-serving goals, and Schenkopp had seen enough of that. Besides, he had heard just enough about the new Thirteenth Fleet to know that it was a rush job. That either meant the guy was an egotist who demanded a command of his own right now as payment, or a person who had made the wrong kind of enemies. Either way, he didn't need that kind of hassle.

"Speaking of different, when's our next assignment?" Blumehardt said, calmly drinking his eggnog. Another superficial difference there: Schenkopp hated the drink.

"Could be a few weeks still. Hopefully, somewhere a bit quieter for once. We could all use the rest."

"And then we'll have more time to flirt at the girls." Linz mused, a slight smile belying the serious tone of his voice. Schenkopp could only shrug in exaggerated innocence.

"If it so happens that we're assigned to a resort planet, we'll have to bear with the conditions." He stated just as seriously. All three men laughed, knowing from the character of their unit that it'd bear such conditions just _fine_.

Their amusement was interrupted by a nearby crash. They and several others from surrounding tables looked over to see a waitress – a pretty, young, blond-haired girl who had happened to wait their table a while back – bowing in front of an irate man in uniform. At a glance, it appeared that her hands had slipped, a coffee cup had broken, and a part the man's pants were ruined by the liquid.

An accident that could happen, and usually not something he'd look at longer than necessary. But the body language of the waitress, and the posture of the officer – not to mention the fact that the man's friends rose – gave him bad vibes.

"Colonel." Blumehardt said, and the tension in his tone told Schenkopp that his subordinates had gauged the same thing out of the picture.

"Yeah." Was all he said, rising. Linz and Blumehardt rose as well, falling in step right behind him as the trio walked towards the disturbance. The irate officer was speaking, his entire tone self-important, threatening.

"When you stain our uniform, you dishonour the entire military!" the man growled, his eyes cold and haughty. After spouting that line, which Schenkopp rated as crap in the purest, literal sense of the term, the man grabbed the waitress' front shirt, and forced the young lady up a bit. The young woman couldn't repress a yelp of fear.

Even ten years ago, the man would have been simply decked for doing something like that; such was his youthful enthusiasm in meting out a violent breed of justice. But age had taught him to use different means to teach bullies like those guys – none of the others around the man seemed to disapprove, after all – a lesson. So, he only let his voice convey his disgust and disdain as he spoke, surprising the group.

"A soldier picking a fight with a young lady." He drawled mockingly, "That's simply so pathetic."

The man let go of the waitress in surprise. His friends also looked at the interlopers askance. "Who the hell are you?" The man who'd assaulted the girl growled.

"I'm Walter von Schenkopp, regimental commander of the Rosen Ritters, or the Knights of the Rose if you prefer. Perhaps you've heard of us?" he smirked.

The man hadn't, but several of the others blanched, and one hurriedly whispered something in the assailant's ear. There was such a thing as having a reputation, and that was a good place to use it.

And his unit deserved it. A propaganda unit made up of Imperial deserters, imperial refugees, or imperial-born citizens, it had started pretty much as a joke. And then, after two decades of general failure, it had reinvented itself into one of the very best units in the war, all sides included. That wasn't a boast, he knew, they had the deeds to prove it.

As the bullies in military uniforms hesitated, he picked up a pot filled with coffee from a nearby tray. "It seems that you're worried about those stains," he noted, and flung the brown contents on the lead aggressor. The man gasped in pain and turned away as the hot liquid did its work.

"Y-you fools! Don't you know who we are? We work directly for the Department of Defense, under Job Trunicht's direct command!" One of the other men shouted.

"That's right! He'll have you court-martialed for this!" Another added.

_Ah, bullies. They never, ever change. When they're cornered, they hide behind someone else, _he reasoned, unimpressed with the threat. If anything, he was getting tired of this entire altercation.

"By all means, please do," he mocked, "but don't forget that this court-martial will also have an officer who assaulted a civilian in front of many witnesses. I mean, what if something like that was reported?"

"You son of a bitch!" the instigator of the of the entire fiasco shouted, throwing a punch that Schenkopp had seen coming a light-year away. He caught it neatly. The other man wasn't very strong. Sadly for his opponent, Schenkopp was.

"You can pick a fight with me whenever you want. Just be ready for me to hit back!" He said, and shoved the man away. The soldiers quickly took stock of the situation at this point, and left, not without glaring at the three members of the Rosen Ritters.

The colonel watched them go, keenly aware that nobody else nearby had dared to challenge those men on their behaviour, even though he saw relief on many faces. Those men had political connections, and most were cowed by that.

"It doesn't matter if it's the Alliance or the Empire, corruption's the same wherever you go." He mused, turning away, nodding as the waitress gave her thanks. "Let's check out of here, you two."

"Where to, colonel?"

"Anywhere nicer than here. I think I'll be fine not seeing Headquarters for a while."

Once more, he wondered if there was anything better in the country he'd fled to compared to the one he'd fled from. And again, after what he'd just seen, the answer was getting murkier and murkier to get to.

* * *

**March 23, Universal Calendar 796**

**Planet Heinessen, Free Planets Star Fleet Headquarters**

Murai hadn't shown any surprise, or much of anything else, when he had been promoted to commodore. Nor had he been particularly vocal when he had been assigned as the Thirteenth Fleet Chief of Staff under the newly-appointed rear admiral Yang.

It wasn't a case of absolute confidence or blind devotion. There were many things in the new fleet that he certainly found suspicious. But orders were orders. And if there was one thing Murai knew, it was that he was made of the stuff that thrived upon making things run smoothly. Consequently, ever since he had graduated almost a quarter century ago, he had applied himself rigorously to whatever task was handed to him.

Good work was, to him, its own reward. Promotions were a bonus, nothing more.

So in this first meeting of the Thirteenth Fleet's commanders – which was yet missing its fleet commander, as Yang had yet to arrive – Murai briefly looked over the people in the briefing.

Patorichev sat next to him, having followed him with the new rank of captain as Operations Officer of the Thirteenth fleet, effectively making him the highest-ranking member of Yang's direct staff.

As far as Murai was concerned about the massive, brown-haired man, Patorichev ate like two young men, had the physical strength and resilience of at least three average soldiers, and managed to maintain a sense of optimism even in the direst circumstances. Traits which clearly clashed with Murai himself, especially in eating habits, where he maintained the same frugal discipline as in everything else.

However, Patorichev was also a hard worker who had a keen sense of people and always managed to bring his energy into a situation. Since their first meeting at Econia seven years ago, he had worked with him three times, the second being the last two years within the Sixth Fleet. The man was solid and, although he didn't wholly approve of his attitude at times, he trusted him completely and even saw him as a friend.

Seated in front of him was commodore Edwin Fischer, the vice-commander of the Thirteenth. He had never met the silver-haired moustached man before Astarte, but had heard about him. He was considered unimaginative in terms of personal tactics and strategy, but had two strong points.

One, he had an ability to manage fleet operations so well that his squadrons always performed operations given them flawlessly. Two, the man had shown himself to have kept a completely level head at Astarte, and he had been credited as one of the key factors which had allowed a large portion of the Fourth Fleet to survive. Murai was quite glad to have him with the fleet.

Seated next to him was commodore Nilsen. An older, balding man, he had actually held the rank longer than Murai, which would usually cause problems. However, he had heard that Nilsen, fifty-six years old at this point, had decided to retire after his anniversary celebration. As that anniversary happened to be the first of June, this was likely his last major operation, and giving him the position of second-in-command would mean a reshuffling soon after the fleet's formation, which would be counterproductive. Nilsen himself clearly seemed to have no problem with the command structure.

Only Commodore Matthews wasn't present, being on medical leave because of a nervous breakdown. Murai hoped the man got better. He had perhaps been above his competence at Astarte, but he was no fool. Everybody could break.

They had all been summoned to meet and had been ushered into this meeting room – utilitarian and rather bland like most Fleet Headquarters facilities – and had been served coffee. And they had been waiting a good fifteen minutes now. They couldn't even look outside, as such operations meetings were held in rooms with no windows, as to maintain the highest levels of secrecy.

"Maybe he got lost." Patorichev mused with an amused undertone. It was clear, given the context, who 'he' was. Murai was shocked at the familiar tone, but quickly reminded himself that he had actually worked with Yang when the man, fresh from El Facil, had been the youthful, quiet lieutenant-commander that Murai had also briefly met at Econia.

"I highly doubt that." He replied, trying to keep his tone from being chiding. To his chagrin, Nilsen picked up where Patorichev left off.

"I say he's cutting it close to so he doesn't have to drink the coffee!" he explained, broad face puckered in mock disdain as he lifted his cup. "The Defense Forces' standard coffee, gentlemen!"

Both Fischer and Patorichev chuckled at that, and even Murai had to smile. The Fleet's standard coffee _was_ well-known to be rather substandard, and it wasn't unusual for people to bend the rules and bring in their own blends on assignment. This was one area that was left alone as far as rules and punishments went.

The banter was cut short when the door opened that Yang Wen-li entered, looking slightly sheepish for some reason. As he rose and saluted as per protocol along with the others, Murai couldn't help but wonder if Yang had indeed gotten lost in some matter, then decided that was an idle and rather ridiculous thought, as some aide would have escorted him to the room.

Yang looked the same as he had in Astarte, although less tired-looking, which was to be expected. The only differences were to be found on his uniform. Mainly, the pin on the left breast of his uniform had been changed from the red square of the Operations Division, to the blue pin with an attached orange ribbon that denoted his new status as either squadron or fleet commander, a similar device being present on Nilsen and Fischer's uniforms.

And even more importantly, the pin on his uniform collar now sported his new rank of rear admiral: one pentagram. Yang now surpassed them all in actual rank rather than a temporary brevet field promotion.

The first commander of the new Thirteenth Fleet saluted back, then coughed, as if not sure what he was supposed to say. This reminded Murai more of the young lieutenant-commander he'd once met years ago.

"Sorry you had to wait; I just received a few last-minute updates." He said, "Please sit down, let's get this done."

As soon as they had done so, Yang looked around and sighed. "I know how strange a situation this must be for many people here. This new fleet's a surprise to me, too. Let's make the best of it and bring as many of our men alive whenever we're forced to fight, and I guess we'll call it a good job."

"Now, before I go over our personnel situation and the mission," he stated, and Murai felt a tinge of _something_ as Yang's sentence rested on the word _mission_, "Let's see how we stand materially. Commodore Murai?"

Murai nodded. Straight to business, no posturing. He could definitely deal with that. He looked over the other members of the fleet's present command structure as he began speaking.

"The battle of Astarte had hit us particularly hard, and so the Department of Defense has officially disbanded the Fourth and Sixth Fleets, and brought what ships were undamaged or necessitated only minor repairs under the command of the Thirteenth Fleet."

"That totals forty-nine hundred ships. To that, were added fifteen hundred other ships from other postings or directly from the shipyards, which brings our number to sixty-four hundred ships. We also have confirmation that the fleet flagship will be a Cronus-class command battleship named the _Hyperion._"

There was slight surprise at that. "Not an _Ajax_-class? That's not quite standard." Nilsen mused.

"Yes, commodore. But the recent losses at Astarte have convinced the Department of Defense to focus on productions of standard battleships instead. The only command-class battleships still in construction are new, experimental classes to replace the Ajax-class." Murai finished.

Yang waved that away, literally waving his hand away for a moment as he replied. "I don't mind. The _Hyperion_ is being refitted with the best equipment they can find, and the communications equipment equals that of an Ajax-class. Good enough for me. Thank you, commodore. Now, let's go over the Thirteenth Fleet's first _official_ mission.

Murai raised an eyebrow for a second. Why tense the word 'official'. As he wondered, Yang plugged in an electronic chip into a receiver, and the holographic system in the middle of the table sprang to life, immediately constructing a simplified map of the main star systems lying between Barlat Starzone and the Iserlohn Corridor. Yang took a thumb-sized remote and clicked towards the map, and a route was shown.

"Our fleet is to journey from Barlat, through the main military warp lanes, all the way up to just inside the Corridor. Grissom, Langden and Volhan are possibilities and up to us to choose. Once at one of these Starzones, we are to conduct patrols of the chosen Starzone and the other two for a periode of five days, before returning through the corridor all the way back to the Grantford Starzone, to dock at facilities there and address problems that may have arisen."

"In short, a simple drill dispatch with minimal risk." He finished "Perfectly standard stuff."

"That will give us the time to get the men and the equipment better." Fischer noted. Nilsen nodded next to him.

Murai agreed that it was exactly the sort of mission that should be given to a brand new unit which was still different pieces with different command styles ingrained, assuming it had any. Yet, for some reason, it didn't look like Yang was finished. The next step was, of course, to talk of personnel placement, materiel, captaincy and formations. But none of those elements came from the new fleet commander.

Instead, the admiral removed his beret and scratched his head, as if intensely bothered by something. Murai and Patorichev exchanged a look. They both knew that this seemed to be what Yang did when either bothered, thinking, or both. After a moment, he spoke again, his beret now squeezed in one hand.

"That's what the PR Department will know about, that's what Logistics will know about. That's what the public will know about. In fact, everyone but the people in this room and a select few will know about this until the Fleet launches and the drill's radio silence will be enacted." Yang leaned backwards on his chair with a wry grin.

"I'd be so happy if that was the actual mission. It'd make my life easier right now. But I've got rotten luck for those things, and I'm dragging you along on this one," Yang all but groaned, "But it's not our real mission. _This_ happens to be our real mission."

He used the remote again, and a sector of the corridor was expanded, and expanded again, until they all saw metallic object that had been the nightmare of every Alliance commander for the last quarter century.

Nobody made a sound.

Murai was certain that a fly would easily be heard now. As if moved by an unseen force, everyone looked at their young commander with varying expressions of repressed dismay and outrage.

The new rear admiral, for his part, gave them a wry grin and shrug in response, as if well aware of the impossibility of the mission he was showing.

"The real first mission of the Thirteenth Fleet, I'm afraid, is to take Iserlohn Fortress from the Galactic Empire."

* * *

**April 20, Universal Calendar 796**

**Planet Heinessen, Strategic Planning Center**

Being nervous wasn't something Frederica was used to.

She had always been a go-to person as far as she could remember; never worrying all that much about what impression she would make or what misstep she might find herself doing. She had always done her work, had always controlled herself, and had always had confidence in what she did.

This time wasn't all that different, superficially at least. She was certain that she wouldn't make a fool of herself. It simply wasn't the way she was made. Professionalism was the way her family went for, and she had taken to that, and especially her father's example, with great devotion.

Still, this time, she truly wished to make a good impression, and she couldn't fully stop herself from feeling a bit of nervous expectation at meeting Yang Wen-li face-to-face for the first time in over seven years.

It had taken quite a while for the bureaucracy to give her the necessary clearance and firm transfer orders. The transfer orders had finally arrived late in the evening the day before, stating that she was no longer working at the Information Analysis Subdivision, but now had to take up her new duties as Adjutant to the Thirteenth Fleet Commanding Officer.

_It was really about time, _she groused despite herself. It wasn't so much the bureaucratic sluggishness that bothered her, but rather the fact that the Thirteenth Fleet was due to set sail on its maiden voyage in a mere six days. One day before full mobilisation, six in total before formal dispatch.

Already, in orbit, the fleet lines were forming. Destroyers, cruisers, battleships and carriers were regrouped into combat units, then into flotillas, and then finally squadrons. By this time, admiral Yang was certainly swimming in paperwork, and it was her job to get to know all of the information, sort it out, and streamline the fleet commander's schedule so he could concentrate on actually running his fleet.

Unlike what her best friend had teased, and despite an undeniable desire to meet the man who had saved her face-to-face again, her desire for this order was purely professional. She was now to be Yang's support and she intended to do as good a job there as she had done anywhere else.

She made her way to the office which she knew had been assigned to the new fleet commander, navigating the corridors quickly, even though it was her first time in that section of the titanic building... As she neared her target, she heard voices coming from around the corner, down another corridor, clearly male ones. This part of the building being quiet, she easily discerned what they said.

"So what I heard is that the other commanders said something like 'He's just a baby, and they're sending him to kill a lion.' Or something like that. Maybe they were just drunk. Who knows." One of the voices said, a bright, strong voice, ringing with amusement tinged with cynicism.

"Really? Uh, it's not quite a bad analogy, given the circumstances." Another voice, more toned down and pensive, replied. She instinctively perked up slightly at it. She knew who that voice belonged too, had never forgotten it since El Facil.

"That right?" the brighter, younger-sounding voice retorted casually, "But then I heard that old man Bucock of the Fifth Fleet told everyone else to give you a fair shot before judging you, and they all stopped talking about it."

There was a moment of silence.

"You really like juicy gossip, don't you?" Yang's voice said. There was no accusation in it, only mild teasing. Clearly, this was one of Yang's friends.

"What can I say? I was raised by a journalist, I picked up some habits." The other man replied, and she felt something very close to resentment there. "Anyway, how about going out tonight? No need to let gossips run everything."

"No, sorry about that, Attenborough. I just have one day left before the fleet mobilises. I simply've got no time to spare at all."

"Okay, then." Attenborough said, "Then as soon as we can, okay?"

Yang agreed, and she heard a door open, then close, likely Yang's office. The other man kept walking towards her, and as luck would have it, they rounded the corner nearly at the same time. She saw a pleasant-looking man with oddly light green hair and the rank of captain on his uniform. She saluted, and he did the same, and both continued on their way.

She made her way to the door, then stopped and took a breath. This was the big moment, and she had to make a good impression. This wasn't the time for anything outside of complete, dutiful attitude.

"Well, here goes." She said, and rang to be granted entry.

At once, Yang's reply was communicated through a speaker from inside. _"Come in_._"_

She entered, and saw that he had his back turned to her, seated on the edge of his desk. He was looking at a document lying on his desk. Undeterred since she had been allowed to enter, she made her way towards him as protocol dictated for proper introductions.

He turned towards her then, coming to his feet in what appeared to be sort of mild surprise. In fact, he seemed to be caught between bemusement and a sort of gaping awe.

Her eidetic memory allowed her to compare the man she remembered to this one. Yang had grown slightly form the young lieutenant of El Facil, but it was his face that had changed more. The past seven years had erased the boyishness of that time, had narrowed and mature the man's face.

In the back of her mind, she found those changes to be rather pleasant, all things considered.

She came to the requisite distance, and snapped a perfect, salute, formally introducing herself.

"Reporting." She started, and he seemed to be even more bemused for a moment, "As of today, I have been assigned as your adjutant. My name is Frederica Greenhill, lieutenant junior grade."

As insane as she knew it to be, a very slim part of her hoped that her name might trigger some memory, but there was no recognition in the man's eyes. She mentally chided herself for the fancy. The young Yang had been in the middle of an extremely stressful operation; of course he no longer remembered details.

Her last name, however, he definitely recognized. "Greenhill? You wouldn't be admiral Greenhill's…" Yang started, and seemed to be pondering how to finish the sentence. She decided to risk a very slight breach of protocol by acting as if he had finished already.

"Yes, sir. My father's told me all about you." Although that wasn't the only source of information she had, she was telling the truth there. Dwight Greenhill had closely worked with Yang as his subordinate on several occasions, and had never had anything but glowing praise for his keen intellect and abilities, whether tactical or strategic.

At that, Yang seemed to be a bit agitated, lightly hitting a fist in his other hand and muttering something. She only understood the words 'Cazerne' and 'setup' in the aggravated mutterings.

"Sir?" she inquired.

"Ah, forget about that. At any rate, welcome, I guess." There was a moment of silence, and it seemed to occur to Yang that she wasn't going to say anything until he did, and that they were going to be standing in his officer in rising awkwardness if he didn't. "Please sit down." He quickly added, indicating one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

She nodded, taking a seat, thinking that he would take his proper commander's chair. To her surprise, he didn't. Rather, he sat in the other visitor's chair, and looked at her. He then scratched his head.

She patiently waited. There was nothing else to do.

"How do I get this out?" he wondered aloud, "The first thing you have to know about me is that I'll ask for tea with brandy in it. Sometimes too much brandy. Don't be afraid to cut it off if I go too far, I'll appreciate it."

As far as Frederica was concerned, that was a request that came out of left field, but she nodded again.

"I'm not really a well-ordered man, so you'll probably be taking care of filing reports on top of everything else. I might take naps on downtimes, so don't be surprised if you see that." He seemed a bit flustered. Deep down, so was she. She hadn't thought she'd be given those guidelines. But she never let that register. "Does that all make sense to you?" he added.

"Yes, sir." _If a bit weird, I've got to admit. But I've heard other commanders are even worse than that._

That seemed to take a weight off his shoulders, and he smiled at her, so sincerely she found herself smiling back before she could check it. He then lightly clapped his hands once.

"Okay, then down to the business of the fleet. Do you have a pad ready?"

She produced one from her pocket. It was a small, compact one, but it would do its job well, she had made sure to choose the type of device she would work with wisely. "If you'll allow me the expression, sir, I'm ready when you are."

"Okay."

He then started talking. Schedules, dates. Calls to the Logistics Division for delivery of a captured Imperial Cruiser and several hundred Imperial uniforms. Finalization of the transfer of the Rosen Ritter combat unit to the Thirteenth Fleet. Clearance for added decoy buoys. The arrival of the fleet's flagship, the _Hyperion_.

The _supposed_ and _real_ goals of the dispatch.

It took him nearly an hour. He didn't move from his place, only speaking in a calm, collected tone. The information was both precise and concise, clearly denoting that there had been a lot of thought put into whatever ideas Yang had for his small fleet. Inwardly at least, she was left a bit dazed by the flow of information, but she had seen worse.

_Still, for someone who described himself as a disorderly person, he's got a pretty orderly mind_.

"That's about it. You got all that? You'll need to be familiar with all that by mobilisation tomorrow. Is that okay?" He concluded.

"No problem, sir." She paused, and then queried, "Sir, if I may ask?"

"Yeah?"

"About the Thirteenth Fleet's true orders. Is there a plan ready?"

At that, Yang gave an almost sheepish grin. "Almost. Care to help me set the final pieces, lieutenant Greenhill?"

With that, the shock and doubts seemed to melt away. The lieutenant-commander of El Facil was still there, ready to work miracles with reserve and quiet cunning. She found herself nodding.

And so they went to work.

* * *

**April 28, Universal Calendar 796**

**Planet Santuario, Neu Aachen West Library**

Sullivan had always been out for his own advancement.

That wasn't a boast that he made, nor did that make him someone he felt was difficult to work with. After all, he didn't take credit for work that wasn't his, that was just stupid and created friction. And he didn't mind giving praise for good work, either.

The best way for him to advance, he realized, was simply to work more than the others, to put in just that little more time, to make that extra effort. It had always worked as far as he was concerned.

His grades were always good, and he was one of the best athletes at Brian Moores High School. And he had some constant success with girls, too. All because he always gave that little extra.

So when he helped close the Neu Aachen West Library, he always made sure that nothing had been overlooked, and was often the very last employee to leave. As was the case that evening. It was actually well past half an hour before closing, and he was just making that one last check to make sure he had filed all of returned books completely.

So when a message appeared to tell him that there was an entry within the system, he looked mostly to make sure it wasn't something he'd be accused of missing. It just wouldn't do, after all.

Someone had accessed the digital works. There was nothing wrong with that by itself. This was, after all, a public library, and anyone with the proper codes could access the digital files. In fact, many college students often did just that. Still, he was there, and curiosity had him. He was pretty much finished here, anyway.

He accessed the system and found that three different works and the information scrolled down at once.

ACCESS: 93J001HJK USER: UNREGISTERED DATE: 28/04/796

FILE: 0001175 Allaire, Gregory Michel. _Implantation of Terran Wildlife: Variations on Planetary Ecosystems_. Brent City: National Geographic Society, 617. AR: 11/06/654

FILE: 0001367 Tsurugi, Miwako. _The Dangers of the Alliance Legal System_. Aeras Publishing House, 650. AR: 11/06/654

FILE: 0003734 Ward, Jeffrey. _The Battle of Dagon: Fact and Fiction_. Owl Books Publishing House, 653. AR: 11/06/654

FILES DOWNLOAD COMPLETE - 28/04/796 21:34

Sullivan whistled the sound echoing through that part of the silent library. This was old stuff right there, and pretty varied stuff at that. Ecology, law, history. He didn't see any link between the three works.

He knew one of the names, at least, but that was because the title had caught his eye. Jeffrey Ward, one of the admirals who had served under Lin Pao at the Battle of Dagon. One of the saviors of the Alliance and this and that. Anybody who paid attention to history classes – as he did – knew that much. The others were complete unknowns to him.

Then he noticed the archival dating and frowned. UC 654. If he remembered, that was right in the middle the main colonization phase for Planet Santuario, the central planet of the Rio Verde Starzone and his home.

_Main Colonization Phase, _he thought sardonically, _more Like General Stampede of Doom_. Alliance history books might not have noted that extensively, but local history was very clear on the nature of the colonization.

In the midst of extensive terraforming, Santuario had been colonized by elements of the original Alliance citizens barely six or seven years before the War, the exact date was a subject of debate. But after the Battle of Dagon, had come the immense Second Exodus, and several floods of refugees had been put on the planet with what aid the overtaxed Alliance government could give.

Not that Santuario needed any aid anymore. With over eight hundred million citizens, it was now a highly-industrialized, thriving world that prided itself on its democratic freedoms. But even today, nobody was allowed to forget the early days of the colony, during which the Library had been first founded. And unless Sullivan was wrong – an unlikely prospect in his mind – those documents had been sent right the very year it had.

_Why would someone want those old documents now? I mean, I don't know if you can find Allaire or Tsurugi easily these days, but I'm sure you can find Ward easily enough. I mean, all of the admirals of Dagon are pretty important these days._

He glared at the screen. Maybe it was all a bug, a glitch in the system, and it was late. He'd done a fine job like always, so he could just leave that alone.

But then there was this 'UNREGISTERED' label that bothered him. It wasn't like whoever had come had downloaded important documents, but the fact remained that, he was here. The hour of access and download were in the system. And when he closed, final closure would also be in the system.

For a moment, Sullivan wondered what he should do.

It didn't take very long. The possibility of being questioned about having seen the problem and doing nothing about it clashed too strongly with his own perception of good work, and rubbed his predisposition to look out for himself first the wrong way.

He'd seen it. He'd report it. And if it caused someone trouble, well… 'better them than me' had been a maxim that suited him just fine.

He wrote a note to the central administration, with the pasted information, for verification. Nodding to himself, he sent it.

He felt better already. _Now, home I go, _he decided. Zeal got you only so far before it became intolerable.

Ten minutes later, he left the library, silent and empty until the janitor made his rounds early the next day.

That very next day, Sullivan had completely forgotten the entire incident.

* * *

**May 2, Universal Calendar 796**

**Planet Heinessen, Strategic Planning Center Shuttle Launch**

Yang sat in a seat next to one of the shuttle's windows as it began to take off, turning to see lieutenant Greenhill take her place next to her. She nodded respectfully, and he nodded back with a slight, wry smile. He briefly wondered if Julian had managed to make his way to her. It wouldn't surprise him. The boy was nothing if not cunning and insistent.

Still, he had to admit that, even if it was a veiled attempt to set him up with someone, Cazerne had chosen well. Since taking her post a few days ago, she had done the work of three without ever complaining even in the subtlest matter. She had overseen the mobilization with him, had toured the _Hyperion_, and had sat on meetings, always helpful and perfectly professional.

She also happened to make great tea. Without much brandy, but he wasn't about to be picky for something that slight. He could always put in more by himself if need be.

They were going from the space port's shuttle catapult system, which was faster and certainly impressive to watch from afar as shuttle burst like bullets from the great holes in the immense structure. But it didn't have the lengthy ceremony that went with major pre-battles. It was, after all, supposed to be a shakedown, nothing more. True dispatches would come only later.

_I only wish that were true. A good, old-fashioned drill, with no enemy to speak of. I could use the quiet. _As he thought this, the catapult system finished lifting the shuttle to the right angle, and its engines roared to life. Inside the large cabin, the certainly deafening sound was just a murmur.

The historian in Yang couldn't help but remember that the power with which the shuttle shot out of the catapult and streaked through Heinessen's clear early evening sky would have been a harrowing experience that early shuttle pilots seventeen hundred years in the past had to endure. Having taken part in such a recreation for training purposes at the Academy, he had nothing but admiration for these early explorers.

Fortunately, gravity control was an old technology now, and there was almost no feeling, mainly a slight pressure which didn't last all that long. The skies soon darkened and cleared into the cold, clear black of space, with its many stars providing their beauty. The shuttle pilots immediately angled for a large cluster of ships. His shuttle, however, went for the _Hyperion_.

The teal-colored ship was of the previous class of command battleships, the predecessor of the _Ajax_-class. It was only three quarters of its successor's length and only thirty-two main cannons rather than the standard forty of the later command ship class. Yet the _Hyperion _pleased him somehow. It seemed less austere than the _Patrocles_ for some reason he probably would never be able to pin.

They docked within the gargantuan shuttle bay, to be quickly greeted by captain Marino, a slim, black-skinned man in his late thirties who commanded the ship for three years already and knew it like the back of his hand. Lively, no-nonsense and competent, he was another person Yang felt was a good choice. This was a solid captain whom he could trust.

The bridge that they went to was one of the reasons he liked the ship, he was sure. Instead of the many-layered Ajax bridges, which came out of current standard battleship designs, the _Hyperion_'s bridge was built on two levels only. The bottom level had all of the main helm and status controls, while the upper deck had operations and communications, as well as space for the command staff.

More clearly, a large conference table surrounded by ten chairs – one on each end, two on each longer side, and one on each corner - was set in the middle of the upper deck. Each had a personal alcove from which the person could review or share information. This was the main thing he liked there; he much preferred this more informal setup. The chair at one end could swivel and go to another alcove which overlooked the lower level. That was the commander's chair, and the one he took.

Murai, Patorichev and Fischer – whom he had asked to remain with him for the time being instead of being on the _Airget Lahm_ – took seats at the conference table, even as Marino took the captain's station close to Yang's own, and Greenhill herself checked in with different sections in his name. Officers quickly gave out information.

"Carrier groups report ready!"

"Skirmish units report ready!"

"Support elements report ready!"

"Standard formation achieved!"

At that time, Frederica turned to Yang, the last necessary confirmations having been given.

"Commander," she said respectfully, "All ships report ready. The fleet is ready to depart on your command."

Yang nodded, and turned forward towards the main front screen. He wasn't thrilled to be leading a machine of war. But he was a soldier with an assigned duty, and he was going to carry it out, like it or not.

"Thirteenth Fleet, clear Heinessen's gravity and set course for the first warp point." he commanded.

For good or ill, the operation had begun.

* * *

_On May 2, UC 796, the newly-created 13__th__ Fleet of the Free Planets Star Fleet, departed the heart of his nation. Its mission: to end a losing stalemate that the Free Planets Alliance had been engaged in for over thirty years by taking the most powerful fortress ever built._

_That very mission would change the galaxy for many years to come._


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

**Iserlohn**

_As the month of May rolled out, the Free Planets Alliance Thirteenth Fleet made its way through friendly space, conducting war scenarios and drills. These drills, although approved by rear admiral Yang, were largely written by commodore Fischer, to whom Yang had given control of the inner workings of the fleet. Within a few days, the melting pot of hardened veterans, jaded survivors and new recruits began to form a cohesive role._

_As the fleet approached Volhan Starzone, Yang revealed the real purpose of the fleet: a stealth strike at Iserlohn. The news created much turmoil and doubt within the forces, but the fleet commander assured that there would be no frontal assault. Rather, he would use subterfuge in order to take Iserlohn. Failing that, he would retire from the field and accept responsibility._

_Yang's plan was to be conducted in three phases. Phase One: The Iserlohn Garrison Fleet was to be lured away from the Fortress, primarily using false signals and decoys, so that there would be no mobile enemy to contend with for several hours at the least._

_Phase Two: The recently-captured Imperial Cruiser _Bremen_, with a disguised crew of Alliance soldiers, would flee a mock pursuit by the Thirteenth Fleet. With this, and some aid from the fleet outside if at all possible, the infiltration team would take control of the command center and docking bay._

_Phase Three: The Thirteenth Fleet would take refuge within Iserlohn Fortress, secure it, and use its weapons to defeat the returning Garrison Fleet if need be._

_Yang then announced that the infiltration would be carried out by the Rosen Ritters Regiments, which created tension. Although the regiment's combat prowess was beyond reproach, several of its commanders had defected before, and there was a risk that the latest leader – Walter von Schenkopp – would do the same._

_Acknowledging the possibility, admiral Yang however fervently maintained trust in colonel Schenkopp, and maintained his decision: the Rosen Ritters would infiltrate. He would accept full responsibility if the worst happened._

_As such, early on May 14__th__, 796 UC, the Thirteenth Fleet began Phase One of what Yang wryly named 'Operation Trojan Horse'_.

* * *

**May 14, Imperial Calendar 487**

**Deep Space, Iserlohn Garrison Fleet Flagship **_**Aachen**_

If he had felt it would serve any purpose save for making his general displeasure at the situation known, Paul von Oberstein would have sighed. As it would have brought only the displeasure of his irate fleet commander upon him, he decided to do nothing. It wasn't so much that he feared such an eruption. The cost-to-returns ratio was simply so skewed towards costs that it was pointless.

So he stood still, arms locked behind his back, surveying the ludicrous situation that the Iserlohn Garrison Fleet was getting itself into with complete detachment. Others who met his gaze even for a moment quickly looked away. Nobody liked how he looked back.

He knew that he cut a figure which seemed to utterly define the word 'disinterest' in the physical sense. He was a man of slightly above average height. Not muscular, everything in his physical body was lean, from his elongated, sharp-nosed face to his rather gangly limbs. Even his neck-length brown hair, streaked with white in front, seemed drab. Physically, Oberstein was anything but impressive.

That was until one saw his eyes. Cold, disdainful orbs which gave off eerie reflections and something blinked with red flashes. Unnatural eyes, some said. The silent adjutant to admiral Seeckt had no problem with the impression his eyes gave. After all, they were unnatural. Or, one should say, they were artificial. Born blind, his parents had seen fit to give him a more normal life. He supposed he owed them for that. Not that he felt particularly grateful.

He kept silent because at the moment nothing he could say would matter. The fifteen thousand ships of the Garrison Fleet was already hours away from Iserlohn, charging headlong into what Oberstein firmly believed was a decoy.

The fact that the movements of the Rebel Fleet hadn't been relayed through either Phezzan or any of the Imperial networks of agents meant that the enemy had decided to play it smart, foregoing the obvious charge against Iserlohn Fortress. It had only nearly worked once, and the losses from all six attempts were probably too heavy for the rebel military leaders to consider it again.

No, Oberstein had felt it; from the way the enemy seemed to be deliberately luring the fleet by barely coming into sensor range. The current Alliance commander was a smart one, who shouldn't be underestimated.

He had tried explaining this to admiral Seeckt, urging him to wait before launching the fleet. And he might have succeeded had admiral Stockhausen, the Fortress Commander hadn't mentioned that he agreed with Oberstein's assessment. This, of course, ensured that Seeckt would go.

That was the fatal flaw of Iserlohn Fortress's command structure: there were two of them. Stockhausen commanded the Fortress, Seeckt the fleet. And both men despised each other completely.

That hatred came from the fifth rebel attempt to take the fortress. Unlike the others, it had nearly succeeded, as the Alliance had fought smart, keeping the Imperial Fleet in front of it as it pressed forward. As the enemy was on the verge of fully penetrating Imperial defenses, Stockhausen had ordered Thor's Hammer to fire through both Seeckt's forces and the enemy forces.

Oberstein found no actual fault with that, as it had denied the Rebel Fleet its victory. But that assault had never been forgiven by the Garrison Fleet. So great had the enmity between the two factions become that, when the Alliance had come for a sixth time, Fleet Admiral Muckenburger, the Space Fleet Commander himself, had come to make sure both leaders worked together.

This time, however, the military move hadn't been known in advance. And so, this was the result.

One point two million soldiers were heading headlong into a whole lot of nothing, while behind them, the Alliance was probably moving forward with its main plan. The internal divisions were winning the enemy the battle before it had even begun.

That was, Oberstein coldly concluded, exactly the sort of logic that the enemy followed. It didn't cause him any resentment towards the Alliance leader in charge of the operation. If anything, he found himself almost wishing he was on the other side at the moment. At least, he surmised, the level of competence was surely higher.

Before him, fidgeting in his command chair, Seeckt was showing the fullness of his impatience as he ground his teeth and snapped to the sensor operators. "Anything yet?!"

"No sir," one operator said almost meekly, "There seems to be a large signature in the area, but we're unable to pinpoint it yet."

"Ridiculous. Why won't those cowards show themselves?" Seeckt growled. "Suggestions?"

_Because they're both smarter than you and not in this area, _Oberstein thought with cold disdain. Verbally, he said, "I think that the enemy might simply be baiting us away from the Fortress."

Seeckt frowned, but at that moment, rear admiral Mettler piped up with confidence. "I would think that we have found the enemy's secret staging grounds. Of course, the enemy wouldn't want us to know it if that were the case."

Oberstein blinked quickly twice, the only outward display he allowed himself at the absurd suggestion. There was no logical reason for the Alliance Fleet to have a staging ground so far from the Fortress. Even less reason to remain in the area long enough for the Garrison Fleet to pin down the location even if the first hypothesis was true. This was pure wishful thinking on Mettler's part.

That mindset was exactly the sort that Seeckt loved. The fleet commander rubbed his chin and nodded.

"Then we'll make sure that the Rebels regret their arrogance!" he announced. Loudly and aggressively, as always. _Inept fool._

There was nothing else to be said that would be realistically listened to. But Oberstein felt it was his duty as adjutant to at least interject one last time.

"Respectfully, sir, if I may?" he started.

"You most certainly may not!" Seeckt retorted, "I've listened to your opinion and have made my decision." He gestured at the screen, a sudden, impatient movement. "The rebels are out there. We'll root them out and destroy them before they can execute their plan. That's our duty as soldiers of the Galactic Empire!"

_Looking after them is what they want, _he wanted to reply. _While we look for phantoms out there, the Iserlohn Fortress is bereft of a space arm. The Rebel Fleet is already 'executing' its plan_.

But of course he said nothing like that. It would only put his own position in trouble, and would in no way alter the current, stubborn decision.

How he hated this situation. An Empire where boorish people without a shred of common sense held the reins of power simply because their father and father's father had. It bred only self-indulgence and entitlement, and weeded out such necessary traits as competence and open-mindedness.

It was a world where Oberstein was considered a lesser being because of his artificial eyes. Throughout his life, he had been reminded by many that, had the early Empire's laws still been in effect, he never would have been allowed to live. These snide, cruel comments seemed to increase in fervour every time that he happened to show himself as more able and more intelligent than his peers – which was very often.

In his youth, he had wanted to change this. To crush the old order and create a new one which would have different tenets. In his version of the Empire, a strong work ethics and an ability to look beyond the surface would be more important than birth. There would be classes, but the elite would truly be the best that the nation could offer. In his Empire, greatness would have to be _earned._

But if he had the ideas and the will to effect those changes, Oberstein knew that he lacked the charisma to make them a reality. He didn't have the sort of personality that would make men follow him, a necessary element in every revolution. He was cold and aloof, truthfully detached from what others thought. In fact, he had never been able to fake that he cared a whit about another person's feelings.

So he had reluctantly abandoned his ideals, forced to be content to work with officers who had neither the drive nor the intellect to be worthwhile to society. A boring life's journey at best, he had reflected. But there had been nothing he could do about it.

Until Reinhard von Lohengramm.

Whereas most talented men in the Empire where stifled by birth, charisma or sheer drive, the blonde officer clearly had all three of these qualities within himself. Four years ago, no one knew who he was. Now, barely in his twenties, the man had clawed upward through clever manipulation of both noble and popular opinion, through feats of arms, and a magnetic personality that Oberstein had never seen the like before.

Barely in his twenties, stunning military actions at Third Tiamat, Fourth Tiamat and finally Astarte had made Lohengramm a fleet admiral, in charge of nearly half of the active Imperial Fleet. He had learned that he had appointed men who had shown similar talents as his commanders, showing he preferred men who would give results to men who would be totally subservient.

The more he had observed this rising star, the more he had wondered if this might not be the man to bring the changes he wished for from intellectual musings into reality. He wasn't fully certain of that, yet. But he intended to find out at the first opportunity.

That might not happen, of course, if Iserlohn Fortress fell. If it did, admiral Seeckt would likely charge headlong into a battle against it, despite the knowledge that fifteen thousand ships would never be able to overcome its defenses, much less stand up to repeated shots from the Thor's Hammer.

Oberstein, however, was resolved not to die in such a ludicrous situation, beside such a small-minded excuse for an officer. Yet the time hadn't come yet. So he waited, silently and patiently, for the other shoe to drop, and the smart Alliance commander to spring a trap.

Then he would work with the situation, and find a way to survive the following disaster.

* * *

_Yang's plan to lure the Imperial Fleet away from the Fortress had worked, if temporarily. The success of the operation, however, hinged upon the Fortress falling into their hands long enough for the fleet to take refuge inside it and truly take it over._

_However, although the initial infiltration had gone largely according to plan, the actions of one particularly brave and defiant Imperial officer had forced Schenkopp and the Rosen Ritters to fall back on a back-up plan to ensure the endeavour's full success._

* * *

**May 14, Universal Calendar 796**

**Iserlohn Fortress, Secondary Computer Core**

"_Now that it's come down to it, I'll do my best. For the sake of a permanent peace."_

He had uttered that sentence sardonically, although he had meant no disrespect. Schenkopp didn't know if it was that that idea of peace which rebuked him, or the blind faith that the young idealist who served as his commander had shown which had rankled him. It might have been a bit of both.

His parting shot had been but the last of a conversation where he'd tried his best to egg his commander on, right there on the bridge of the Thirteenth Fleet flagship _Hyperion_. The other commanders seated at the table had been clearly disapproving over him just being _there_, but it was when the plan had been fully explained that he'd tried to coax a reaction out of the man who was about to send the Rosen Ritters into a very dangerous situation.

But Yang hadn't budged when Schenkopp had teased that he might turn traitor. The thoughts of glory and promotion seemed to hold little interest in him, compared to the idea that the war might be stopped for a while. He had been around officers long enough to read them well enough, and the younger officer had seemed completely truthful in everything. Only one sentence had made Yang frowned. That was when Schenkopp had questioned whether the man was an idealist or merely a sophist, adding that Rudolph von Goldenbaum, the founder of the Galactic Empire, had originally been one.

It was that reaction, that honest glare that had convinced him. Yang might have high ideals, might be a patient man, but there were things that went too far, things he wouldn't let slide if pushed. It had given Schenkopp a very short glimpse into the willpower which had allowed a man to carry out a civilian evacuation with little support, and which had enabled the same man to turn a desperate battle around and prevent a complete rout.

At that moment, he had found himself genuinely liking the man, and decided he would see that plan of his through no matter what. He had meant it when he'd said he would do what he could.

And for the first time, as he stood on a ledge underneath the plaza which housed Iserlohn's secondary core computer system, he felt that the crazy plan could actually fully work.

The infiltration with the _Bremen _had worked better than he had expected, and he and several of his men, disguised as Imperial officers, had been shown to admiral Stockhausen himself, citing that they had crucial information for him. At that moment, the 13th Fleet had started a synchronized back-and-forth movement as per the plan, throwing the assembled Imperial officers present into confusion, giving added weight to their statements.

Probably uncertain as to what the Alliance Fleet was preparing, Stockhausen had allowed protocol to be defied, allowing Schenkopp, who had faked being the wounded officer with the important intelligence, to get close to and grab the Imperial commander.

In that situation, Schenkopp knows he would have laughed out loud, mocked his captor, and told his men to shoot. And something told him that Yang might well have done something with the same result. But Stockhausen refused to sacrifice himself that way, and commanded his meant to lay down their arms, allowing the disguised Rosen Ritters to take control of Iserlohn's command center.

As they were securing the prisoners, however, Stockhausen's adjutant had managed to initiate a lockdown of all controls, telling the soldiers that the station only had to wait for the Garrison Fleet to return and retake the place.

That took guts. Enemy or not, Schenkopp couldn't help but admire anybody with real stones. But it had been quite a pain, nonetheless.

Fortunately, thirty years of work hadn't gone on without some knowledge of the Fortress's inner configuration and backup systems becoming known to Alliance Intelligence. While the fortress was effectively on complete lockdown, a backdoor existed at another location.

In this, the lockdown actually helped, as it created a complete blackout from the command center. As such, the normal military contingent – fifty military police agents – would likely be the only defense for the metaphorical backdoor to controlling Iserlohn Fortress. Grabbing hold of weapons and gear they'd prepared for such an eventuality, Schenkopp had set out with Linz and Blumehart.

And now, they were getting ready to strike.

"So far, so good." Linz quipped.

"Let's keep it that way." Schenkopp advised, nodding.

At that, Linz produced a metallic device roughly twice as big at his hand. It looked to the naked eye as a tripod-like, miniature generator. This was exactly what it was. But not any micro-generator. This device generated a small amount of Seffle particles.

Created long ago in the Galactic Federation, Seffle particles had long been seen as an oddity, a chaotic discovery which had no real use in either warfare or civilian usage. That was until Imperial scientists managed to isolate the particles and harness them that it became viable in combat. Now, both Alliance and Imperial forces used such devices.

Linz activated the Seffle generator, and expertly threw it overheard, on the platform where it landed with a clang. Soldiers who were patrolling the perimeter quickly congregated there, and saw the three disguised officer.

With a grin, Schenkopp pointed a gun at one of them. In reaction, the soldier's training took over, and he shot back before he thought. Obviously, he hadn't made the link with the device that had fallen just a little ways off.

One of his comrades, however, had made that very connection, and blanched. "Wait! They threw a Seffle par…!" He never had time to go farther than that, as the shot was taken out of reflex already.

One riffle shot was enough to ignite the device, producing a large-scale conflagration worth half a dozen high-powered grenades. Even from the ledge, Schenkopp grimly felt the heat. Most of the soldiers barely had time to scream. Some didn't even have that luxury.

They quickly climbed up to the platform, to a singed metal floor and over a dozen carbonized, unrecognizable bodies. The stench of cooked meat was overpowering, but it wasn't the first time the three had encountered it. Still, the commander of the Rosen Ritters shook his head in disgust at the sight. At least, he supposed, they died quickly. That was a small blessing if there ever was one.

He holstered his weapon and grasped his axe, activating its high-speed vibration.

"About fifteen people here." Linz said after sweeping his gaze over the area.

_Thirty-five to go._ As if on cue, another group of fifteen soldiers arrived, likely alerted by the conflagration. Schenkopp and his subordinates swiftly hid from view their leader, seeing the scene upon arrival, quickly ordered his men to stop.

"They used Seffle particles. Nobody shoots!" he ordered urgently.

With a grin, the colonel showed himself. "Well, you're a bright guy, aren't you?"

"Who the hell are you?!" The leader asked, even as he and his men tensed. The question amused Schenkopp to no end. _Who the hell cares who I am, it's _what_ I am that should be obvious, dumbass._

"Me? Why, I'm an enemy invader!" he answered honestly. That put them off-balance, he could see that. They had probably half-hoped that he, wearing an Imperial uniform, would answer that there had been an accident. These men were guards, however, and guards were most at ease when nothing happened.

One moment more, and the surprise would fade. The leader ordered his men to prepare for hand-to-hand combat, and then the combat veteran was on them.

The axe he was using was no mere melee weapon issued to Military Police soldiers. His was a first grade combat axe, with a magnetic vibration system and edge with a diamond-hard crystalline structure. It was a melee weapon issued to heavy combat troops who wore energy-dissipating combat armour. It was designed to penetrate such armour.

He struck the first two men with a wide, horizontal swipe. Two men who didn't wear combat armour. The axes cut through flesh and bones as if it wasn't there, and the two went down, already twitching from the sudden blood loss, reflexively trying to keep their intestines from spilling out. The red liquid that was the difference between a living human and a corpse gushed out, transforming the former into the latter.

A third man went down before the assemblage started to regroup. But by then Linz and Blumehart had started to assault the Imperial soldiers from the flanks, confusing the enemy once again. Imperial Armoured Grenadiers would have known what to do at this point. But these soldiers didn't have the training.

"Don't bunch up! Spread out!" The imperial leader ordered urgently, even as other patrol arrived. By then, he mentally counted twelve more that had fallen to their sudden assault.

Spreading out was a good idea. Unfortunately, it left the guards without a coordinated attack plan against three men who knew everything about guerrilla warfare, had in fact trained themselves particularly hard for any involving close combat. The fact that they had trained themselves to run and dodge in full armour made these enemies slow and easy to predict.

Running through and around the columns which supported the ostentatious dome of the secondary computer core building, the trio dodged, feinted, and ran without pause. Once, Schenkopp took hold of the enemy's axe and drove it right back in his skull, then sweeping his own behind him to behead another soldier who had come to strike him from behind.

Another time, with another soldier in hot pursuit, he'd hidden behind a column, putting his axe out as the excited enemy rounded it, literally running into his blade. As he fought, he saw that his two subordinates were unsurprisingly doing very well.

They were the Rosen Ritters, one of the strongest combat units on both sides of the war. And he the two men he had brought were, with Schenkopp himself, the most skilled of that skilled group. In moments, the enemy was down to a dozen men, and they closed in for the kill.

The original imperial leader, by this point, seemed to have a good grasp of how things were likely to end. Without any Grenadiers, he was unlikely to stop them. Consequently, he fled.

Schenkopp, Linz and Blumehart followed. They didn't ask for surrender, had no time for mercy. Every minute put the Thirteenth Fleet in danger of an attack from the Iserlohn Garrison Fleet. And though he strangely had faith that Yang would find a way to beat that fleet under duress, he wanted to avoid allied blood is at all possible.

So he and his subordinates did what they had always done best, and reaped the lives of their enemies, with Schenkopp himself finally taking down the leader as they entered the Secondary Core Computer. Only a few frightened men stood there, awkwardly holding laser rifles. These were clearly engineers with even less combat ability.

That terror was the way to end the battle quickly, and his subordinates quickly pointed rifles taken from dead Imperial soldiers and pointed them at the computer technicians.

"Look at this, your leader's dead!" Blumehart said, gesturing towards the corpse near his feet.

They hesitated.

"We're the Rosen Ritters!" Linz called out, "You're no match for us."

Tired as they were from the exertion of the previous battle, Schenkopp wasn't too certain of that. But the name had an effect, as several men blanched, muttering the name. There were good points to being infamous.

"Give up and surrender immediately," Schenkopp ordered as they recoiled, "It's the only way you're getting out of this one, boys."

It all balanced on a knife's edge. If one of them fired, things would get ugly. If one lay his weapon down, events would go their way. It was all a question of which event happened first.

A long, tense moment ensued. One Schenkopp could have lived without.

And then, grudgingly, one man let go of his rifle.

And then another. And another. As if a damn had burst, they all began laying their weapons down. Inwardly, the leader of the Rosen Ritter gave a sigh of relief.

Quickly, communications was established with the primary command center, even as Linz forced the enemy to undo the computer lockdown at gunpoint. His people there quickly answered that the center was still secure, and that they stood ready to let the fleet in once they were able. Urging the imperial prisoners to hurry, the colonel then contacted another location.

"This is the docking control tower. Good to hear from you, colonel." The voice of captain Busald came in.

"Same here, believe me, Busald," Schenkopp mused with a grin, "So, how's your target?"

"With respect, sir, are you kidding me? This place's been ours for a while now. It's you guys who got slow!"

Far from taking umbrage from that, the brown-haired, grizzled leader chuckled.

While the main goal had always been to take over the central command of Iserlohn Fortress, there had always been a secondary objective: the docking bay control tower, without which the fleet wouldn't be able to take refuge inside the fortress easily once it fell into their hands.

For that purpose, although two hundred men of the Rosen Ritters were dressed in Imperial uniforms to deceive the enemy and take the first target, four hundred others, arrayed in full combat armour, were to take the second. Once the lockdown was removed, the operation would be quite a success.

There was only one item of concern. "Casualties?"

"We've got wounded, but none of them are in danger. No deaths." Busald answered, his voice grimly triumphant.

"Then it looks like the drinks are on me."

"Damn right, colonel. Orders?"

"Stand by. If all goes well, some allied ships should be docking shortly. Schenkopp out." He then ordered Blumehart to patch him to the command center.

His men were still holding the place and awaiting to regain computer control. They, however, had some news for him: the Garrison Fleet had returned, and was now in a standoff with the Thirteenth Fleet, keeping well beyond the firing range so far. From what was gathered, admiral Yang was busy bluffing them, something that couldn't hold forever.

"Got it!" Blumehart exclaimed at that moment. "I've managed to lift computer control. All control should be returned to the command center right now."

Schenkopp nodded. They were behind schedule, but so far had averted the worst-case scenario by quite a bit.

"Activate the landing guidance to the docking bay. Let's get the fleet in here before the Imperials get wise!" He ordered.

* * *

**May 14, Imperial Calendar 487**

**Near Iserlohn Fortress, Iserlohn Garrison Fleet Flagship **_**Aachen**_

"Sir! This is clearly a trap. We mustn't rush the fleet in."

"Damn it, you blasted hypocrite! You were the one going on about rushing in just a little while ago!"

"I recognize that, sir. But the situation has changed. Before they started docking, the enemy forces might not have been in control. But as they are undertaking docking procedures, there's nothing to be done with our current strength."

"Can't you even get what's going on!? If the Rebels have taken the Fortress, we can't simply leave. We'd be disgracing ourselves! We're obligated by oath and duty to try and regain control, even if it means a full strike on Iserlohn!"

"But sir, the odds by this point…"

"_Enough_! I don't need to listen to some coward! _Get out of here!_"

Oberstein was too happy to oblige.

Things had gone largely the way he'd thought it was supposed to. The fleet had eventually found that the enemy forces were but decoys emitting false signals, something that his commander had been unwilling to entertain as an option. Seeckt had this belatedly realized that he had just let Iserlohn without a mobile defense force, and had rushed back to provide support to it.

When they had back, the enemy fleet had been there, holding steady close to Iserlohn.

Which wasn't firing at it at all, either with its main gun or secondary defenses. Less than seven thousand ships, normally a ridiculous number for such a task, were present. It was a very peculiar sight.

But there had been no active docking system, which meant to Oberstein that the fortress hadn't fallen quite yet. Consequently, he urged Seeckt to attack at once. It was the only logical possibility left, the only slim chance of victory he could see.

But Seeckt refused, pointing out that the enemy fleet was so small, more must already be inside the fortress. An enemy message warning them of the same thing seemed to prove him right.

Oberstein didn't buy it at all. The whole plan felt like the work of a smart mind which didn't mind subterfuge to win efficiently, something the robotic-eyed man fully appreciated. Seeckt, however, was so thoroughly the opposite that he didn't even consider the possibility of a trick seriously at all.

Then the enemy had started to dock. From that moment on, chances of victory had all evaporated.

So he left the bridge, taking glances and frank looks which ranged from cold disdain to hidden envy with complete indifference. He immediately headed for the closest shuttle bay, never looking back.

'Get out of here'. It was a harsh, direct command that Oberstein decided to follow immediately by leaving the command battleship _Aachen_ as fast as he could. Some might say that the order wasn't mean for him to leave literally, but that was how he had chosen to interpret the order.

_I'm not dying in the name of this rotten Empire, and certainly not under the command of such a demonstration of ineptitude._

A few well-placed lies and the officer in charge let him board a shuttle and leave, ostensibly to deliver a message to another ship. As soon as he was outside, however, he sped it away from the _Aachen_, and as far from Iserlohn's firing range as it could get.

He was under no illusions that he'd be made to pay for this in some way. He was, after all, deserting his post by taking his commander's orders to the first degree. But at least he could attempt to save himself if that happened. Seeckt's intentions made hopes of survival nil.

The Imperial fleet would charge the rebel ships, and this would force the Alliance commander to use the main cannon as many times as needed. Fifteen thousand ships had no chance of defeating the fortress.

That wasn't a simple guess. That was a statistical certainty. It would happen, very soon now.

So when his onboard sensors started to report high-energy reading that's matched Thor's Hammer, he found himself muttering calmly, reiterating the thought which had occurred to him a lot since before the sortie had taken plan.

"Just as predicted."

* * *

_With the command center, secondary computer core and docking bay in their hands, Alliance ships entered the Fortress and quickly moved to secure it further. Bulkheads were closed, unknowing Imperial military units sealed between walls before they knew what happened. Troops disembarked to bolster defenses at crucial points within Iserlohn. _

_Still, even as Yang Wen-li sat in the command chair that the captured Imperial admiral Stockhausen, the battle wasn't quite over. The Iserlohn Garrison Fleet, despite the odds, appeared ready to charge the ships of the Thirteenth Fleet yet outside._

* * *

**May 14, Universal Calendar 796**

**Iserlohn Fortress, Iserlohn Command Center**

Yang had taken part in the Fifth Battle and Sixth Battle for Iserlohn before this one. He had seen the power of Thor's Hammer from the receiving end. Both times had left him with a feeling of horror and disgust. He had fervently hoped that he would never have to visit that type of destruction on anyone.

As he now ordered the firing of that mighty weapon of destruction from Iserlohn Fortress' command chair, he wondered how human beings could always find ways to cope with such dreadful ironies as doing exactly what they had vowed not to do.

The brilliant flash of light, the product of massive energy turbines drawing from Iserlohn's main energy core, shot out towards the enemy forces like a gigantic lance, obliterating everything in its path. Thor's Hammer fired only a few seconds, and they space became dark once more.

But sensors told another story. The targeted enemy vanguard's formation now had a hold several kilometers wide, sparse debris within it where ships had once been. Merciless numbers from Iserlohn's computers flashed right beneath the image graphically illuminated on the main screen.

1045 VESSELS DESTROYED.

_That's between seventy and eighty thousand lives, _his mind couldn't help but tell him. As many of the Alliance officers gasped and muttered at the scale of the destruction – Yang heard Greenhill choke and felt her turn away, something he frankly couldn't blame her for – he had to grasp his own stomach to keep himself steady.

Anyone who thought there was glory in what he'd just done was either a fool or a madman. In Yang's opinion, very likely both.

"Admiral, this isn't warfare anymore." Schenkopp, who stood to his right, having welcomed him when he had stepped off the _Hyperion_, sounded as sickened as Yang felt. "This is just a straight massacre."

"You're completely right," Yang nodded, "We won't take the evil path that the Empire's taken if we can avoid it at all. Communications!"

"Sir!"

"Contact the enemy fleet. Tell them to surrender their forces. If they won't surrender, then we'll allow them to withdraw."

That seemed to bother some of the younger officers, including the one affected to communications. It seemed to Yang's ears that the main problem was Yang's decision to let the enemy go.

"Are there objections?" he asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than he should have, addressing the three men who had seemed the most hesitant.

"Ah, no sir, no objections, it's just that…" one of them said haltingly.

"We just want you to have the glory you deserve, and serve with you, admiral, truthfully." Another tried to explain.

Yang gritted his teeth. _Glory? There's no _glory_ here!_ For a moment, Yang didn't fully trust himself to speak. Fortunately, Murai was there to set things right, sternly telling the soldiers that their commanding officers had issued an order, and to obey it. This allowed Yang to regain his balance. _These were young men fresh out of the Academy_, he told himself. _They don't understand. They spoke from inexperience._

The calm he felt after that was broken just a few moments later, when the enemy commander replied.

"You don't understand what a soldier's heart is all about. This fleet will now charge to retake this Fortress in the name of the Galactic Empire!"

As Yang heard the words being read out loud by the communications officer, his mind could help but remember things.

Arthur Lynch, abandoning civilians to slavery or worse…

Barnaby Costae, arranging for the deaths of inmates and soldiers alike to cover his fraudulent tracks…

_A soldier's heart?_

The crew of the cruiser Grand Canal, giving their lives because Alliance commanders all but asked civilian protection to be abandoned, something that this one crew refused to do…

The Fourth Battle of Tiamat… Astarte… Jean Robert Lapp, dead…

Jessica grieving before an empty tomb in a sea of graves…

_A soldier's heart?!_

"A soldier's _heart?!_" he exploded, and all eyes turned towards him in varying degrees of surprise. He found that he didn't care about that. For the first time in years, rage against blind stupidity gripped Yang. "It's because of _bastards_ like him that this war goes on and on!"

_Damn you! Damn you and your warped honour!_ He mentally screamed at his Imperial counterpart. _Throwing your soldiers' lives away for a nonexistent chance to get to me! Damn you for forcing my hand!_

There was no other choice left. He had to choose the lesser of two evil. Yang decided, however, that if he was to shoot again, he'd make that dreadful shot count.

"Can you tell me where the enemy flagship is located?" he snapped, standing up.

"Y-yes sir, we can."

"Target that sector." He ordered, glaring at the screen. "We'll make this the last shot." He turned towards his subordinates. All of them gazed back at him supportively. They'd come to the same sort of conclusion as he had, it seems. This was the only thing they could do.

He found little comfort in that. It still rested on him.

"Target locked in, admiral!"

"Thor's Hammer, ready to fire!"

_May I never come to loathe this any less than now._ "Fire!"

Thor's Hammer fired once more, a lance of energy piercing the heavens and killing without mercy. Yet again, ships that were there… simply weren't anymore. The spot where the enemy flagship was didn't even register debris. As he sat down, however, he saw something else on the screen.

969 SHIPS DESTROYED.

_Damn it all, _he told himself as he crossed his arms and stopped looking. He didn't need to see the results of his actions. He'd felt them strongly enough. Within a minute of this, Greenhill spoke up, her tone still tinged with horror.

"The Imperial Fleet is disengaging, sir."

"Of course they are. Sane people don't want to throw their lives away for nothing." He replied, looking to the side at Murai and Greenhill. While the Chief of Staff looked back with the grim eyes of a war veteran, the young adjutant's eyes looked saddened by what had occurred. He hoped he wouldn't see the day when that look would vanish. He feared it had left him years ago.

Self-disgust and such other considerations would have to wait, however. Like it or not, he still had a job to do.

"Lieutenant, contact Heinessen. Tell them that the operation was a success and that the Thirteenth Fleet's orders were fulfilled." And with that said, he returned to his inner contemplation. For one minute, he'd allow himself to feel the many lives he'd just taken in the span of a few moments. That was all he could allow himself.

_This is it, _he told himself, _this is the last time._

_I quit._

He only hoped that they'd let him.

* * *

_On May 14__th__ of the 796__th__ Year of the Universal Calendar, Iserlohn Fortress fell to the Free Planets Star Fleet on the seventh operation against it. With this, a stalemate of over thirty years had been shattered._

_The currents of history had shifted once again._


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

**Aftermath to Victory**

_When Yang Wen-li returned to Heinessen, it was under the hurrahs of a grateful populace. Here, for the first time in far too many years, was a complete victory for the Alliance. For once, the Empire had been completely outwitted, routed, sent packing._

_Yang was promoted. He was celebrated. And already people were planning for more._

* * *

**May 30, Universal Calendar 796**

**Heinessenpolis, Council Arch**

In the hierarchy of the Free Planets Alliance Government, the position of Chief Secretary of Defense was considered the second-highest position, even slightly above that of Chief Secretary of Finance. It hadn't always been the case. Before the war, it had been considered a middling position, mainly due to the fact that there had been no war to wage.

One hundred and fifty years had changed all of that, and now the position firmly stood first in the order of succession should anything happen to the High Council Chairman. The office of the Chief Secretary was a reflection of the power it had over the Alliance's military might.

It was a beige and blue-coloured room within the Twin Peaks, the main High Council building, so named because it looked like a mountain sundered in two, the main high way leading from outside the city up to the gigantic Heinessen Statue, depicting the first Exile leader and spiritual founder of the Alliance.

One entire side of the room was a window which offered a breathtaking view of Heinessenpolis and its main thoroughfare. Right next to that window was a long table of fine magohany wood surrounded by eight sturdy yet comfortable chairs. On the other side of the was the great desk of the Chief Secretary, a polished elm desk over seventy years old. While deep couches for guests and impromptu meetings were in front of the desk and a small bar was on the side, the wall on its back was largely taken by two large pictures.

The one on the left was that of Cornell Youngblood, the Twenty-First Chief Secretary who had been appointed to the post barely a year before the Battle of Dagon. He had thus been the first ' Chief Secretary of War', and had stayed at the post for a decade before being elected to the position of Chairman. To the right of Youngblood's picture was that of Job Truhnicht, the Fourty-Third and current office holder.

It had been a calculated move on the part of Trunicht's to hold this session in his office. It put him on his home ground and reminded the military men on one side of the table who exactly was in charge. It might have been heavy-handed, but the secretary had found that sometimes such things were very necessary.

Trunicht, of course, presided at one end of the table. On his right were four of the highest-ranking officers in the Alliance military, all in uniform: Joint Forces Commander Sitolet, Space Fleet Commander Lobos, Headquarters Chief of StafF Greenhill and Fleet Chief of Staff Onyango. On his left were Deputy Secretary Lepassant, Fleet Secretary Nardiello and Fleet Inspector-General Negroponty. Despite this being an informal meeting, it was a tense one. Nardiello was speaking at the moment. All of these in the best tailored suits. An amusing clash of styles to Trunicht's eyes.

"I think it would be a good idea to have a parade in admiral Yang's honor," she said empathically, "He was already a hero after El Facil, then Astarte. Now the Alliance public has nearly enshrined him as a near-messiah. We'll be questioned if we don't hold such a celebration."

"We should, however, be careful not to bring things out of proportions." Negroponty stated in an overly cautious tone. At that, Greenhill's serious face animated slightly.

"With respect," the admiral replied in a soft but serious tone, "The proportions here are enormous. Iserlohn taken with no fatality among Alliance personnel is a feat unheard of."

"There was a large amount of luck in that victory as well." The inspector-general retorted at once, slightly cringing as Greenhill turned his gaze towards him.

_That much is quite true, _Trunicht thought bitterly. _What should have removed that man from the equation only made him more dangerous. _Outwardly, however, he remained calm and pensive, letting the others brandish the arguments.

"Lucky or not," Nardiello said, frowning, "It doesn't change what happened. Morale-wise, we can't be seen to be unappreciative by the public." At that, Lepassant and a more reluctant Negroponty nodded.

"On the subject of giving Yang his dues, I would like to propose that, aside from his promotion to vice-admiral and the one-rank promotion to his command staff, we could enlarge the Thirteenth Fleet to the size of a full fleet." Greenhill motioned.

Lobos, a grey haired man who was utterly too fat in comparison to his military colleagues, crossed his arms. "Our losses have been too severe for that. We have to keep reserves in case of something happening, and what new ships we still have should go to restore the Eleventh Fleet. We can't afford to send more new ships Yang's way."

_You don't like Yang much, either, eh Lobos? _The fat officer had always been once who thought about his own position before that of the Fleet, something Trunicht completely sympathized with and could use to manipulate the man when it suited him. Yang's rise was ruffling many feathers in the military as well, it seemed.

But Greenhill wasn't ready to surrender his point just yet. "Yes, sir, that's true. But we have another option."

Admiral Onyango snapped his fingers suddenly. "Of course, the Second Fleet!"

Greenhill nodded.

"But isn't the Second Fleet under vice admiral Paeta's command?" Lepassant questioned. "Are you saying we should ignore his seniority on this?"

"No, that's not quite it." Nardiello mused. Seeing questioning looks from her colleagues, she continued, "Admiral Greenhill seems to be in possession of the facts better than I am, but I remember that the status of the Second Fleet hasn't been quite decided yet. Isn't that true, admiral?"

"Yes, madam Secretary."

"Would you care to enlighten us, then, admiral?" Trunicht spoke up, his voice friendly. This Greenhill could also be a problem, it seemed. With a neutral look at the Chief Secretary, the Headquarters Chief of Staff began explaining.

"Admiral Paeta's wounds were mostly internal, but they were grave. He's out of danger now and recovering, but the healing process will take at least six more months, perhaps more. Because of that, Paeta relinquished command of the Second Fleet and his right now awaiting reassignment."

"Which won't be forthcoming until he's recovered." Sitolet rumbled. He, like Trunicht, had said little during the meeting. Trunicht knew the older officer was unhappy, but keeping it in check under a carefully crafted mask of impassivity. _Who does he think he's fooling? I've had much more practice at this. You're pissed, Sitolet, and we both know why. Not that I give a damn._

"So?" Negroponty prompted, his mustached face questioning.

"Circumstances have left the Second Fleet without a posting, although a few ships have been sent to other formations." Greenhill continued, droning on as if he were a patient teacher who dearly wished his lesson to take hold. Trunicht vaguely remembered that the man had actual taught at the Academy for a few years. "Right now, it's not in the Active Roster or the Reserve Roster. It stands in Limbo, metaphorically speaking."

This disconcerted Lepassant considerably. "Thousands of our ships have been spending months without any affectation?" he growled, eyes flashing, "When they should have been used to help defend the nation? Absurd! How did this happen?"

Greenhill weathered that with a neutral expression much better than Sitolet's, he folded his hands together. "Originally, the plan was to take the ships from the Second, Fourth and Sixth Fleets, along with a small flotilla from the shipyards, reform the Second Fleet, and give its command to a new officer. However, there was a... rushed… timetable for the new operation against Iserlohn, and the transfer orders for the ships of the Second Fleet were never completed."

At the slight hesitation at the word _rushed_, Sitolet and Trunicht exchanged a short look, the former disapproving, the latter unapologetic.

_You don't run the Fleet, Sitolet. You tend to forget that at times. I _never_ do._

"So, now you wish to complete these orders." Nardiello mused.

"Yes madam Secretary. With the Department of Defense's approval, we would like to officially transfer the remaining ships and personnel of the Second Fleet to the Thirteenth under vice admiral Yang's command."

An awkward silence welcomed the last sentence. The assembled politicians couldn't quite say no, and yet were hesitant to just accept the decision.

Trunicht knew why. _They think Yang is rising too fast. Not that anybody in their right mind can blame them._

Then Nadiello, unsurprisingly, seemed to be shaking off those doubts. It was at that moment that the Chief Secretary's honed charms came into play.

"This is a good idea. We need to strengthen our active forces. Ten full fleets should be helpful in ensuring national defense and possible future operations into Imperial space." He said pleasantly.

"Operations into Imperial Space?" Nardiello queried, clearly not thrilled. Her point of view clearly was shared by the military officers at the table, although Sitolet looked the most openly adverse to the idea.

"It won't be at my initiative, of course," Trunicht defended himself, "But if the government and the people ask for action, then action we will have to provide. "We can't show weakness at this point. And sometimes, lady and gentlemen, the old adage 'A good defense is a strong offense' rings true. We must do our best to protect this nation."

Lepassant nodded, his eyes alight with patriotic fervor, while Negroponty nodded because… because he would agree with anything Trunicht said. Both were pawns, the former simply more subtly, that was all. Only in Nardiello's eyes was there disagreement.

Plodding, straightforward Fabiola Nardiello. He was surprised she had lasted this long and risen this high in politics. But if she intended to be a problem, well, he couldn't have that. In the future, he'd have to make certain that she understood when and where she should make her stand.

_And if that doesn't work… nobody is completely clean. Everyone has a button to push. I'll find something about her and make her dance to my tune. Willingly if possible, unwillingly if necessary._

A button to push. That was one of the reasons he had wanted Yang removed. The man not only had dared stand up to him, he had pushed Trunicht's button by calling the media to his house. That had been a completely unacceptable gesture from the little military man.

And so, he had tweaked things enough so that Yang had been both promoted for his efforts, and sent on a mission he should have failed at the very best.

It had been what Trunicht had once used against Sitolet. After the failure of the Fifth Battle of Iserlohn, he had greatly reduced the Joint Forces Commander's ability to act independently. Sitolet had somehow survived, but only as long as he did exactly what the Department of Defense told him to do.

But Yang had not only survived, he had won. And by that, he had thrived. He was now popular enough that people were starting to call him 'The Magician' and 'Miracle Yang'. He couldn't assault someone with that level of popularity.

For now, at least. If Trunicht had learned one thing over the years, it was that heroes eventually fell. He'd take care of the new military superstar in time.

For now, however, the man's fame could still be of use.

It was, however, time to bring things to a close.

"We'll hold a ticket parade for the commanders of the Thirteenth Fleet," he decided, "We can't appear as if we don't appreciate what they've done, because we _do _appreciate it. As for the transfer of the remaining Second Fleet ships, folding them into the Thirteenth's command… I guess it's our best solution. Let's get it done, people."

The meeting ended shortly after that. After paying their respects, Lobos, Greenhill and Onyango left quickly, as did Lepassant, Nardiello and Negroponty. Only Sitolet lingered, standing rigid and at attention. Nonchalantly, Trunicht looked at him.

"Yes, admiral, was there something else?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Of course."

"This mission should never have happened. Admiral Yang should never have been sent against Iserlohn Fortress with less than seven thousand ships." Sitolet said grimly.

"You gave the go-ahead for the secret mission, admiral. I trust I don't have to remind you that you made the appointments?"

"No, sir, I don't. But since the order came directly from the Department of Defense, I had no choice but to obey. I'm not trying to shift blame. I was part of the decision, and any deaths there would have been would have rested on me for giving the order, not on admiral Yang."

"Then what is the problem?"

Sitolet stiffened even more if that was possible. "I know there are… factions… who would prefer Yang to be removed for reasons that aren't the best for our national defense. Such actions are dangerous, sir."

"Accusations, admiral?"

"No, sir. Merely the fact that I will not allow harm to come to vice admiral Yang at this juncture. Things have changed, the stalemate has shifted. But I know we'll need him in the days ahead."

"Well, that's very commendable of you, admiral." Trunicht answered smoothly. _And I get your underlying message, Sitolet. Not that your little threats matter much_. "I hate to cut this short, but I have a meeting with the Chairman. If that is all?"

"Yes, sir, it is." He answered, saluting and leaving the room. Trunicht wondered which of them was more glad to be rid of the other's presence.

_Ah, we live in interesting days not that it matters. Yang is a threat. One day I'll take care of him._

Heroes, after all, become all the more magnificient, not to mention useful after they _vanish_.

* * *

**June 3, Universal Calendar 796**

**Heinessenpolis Suburbs, 24 Silverbridge Street**

Frederica knocked on the door of admiral Yang's house. She noticed that the front window had been renovated recently, as parts of the grounds gave signs of a recent restoration. She supposed those were the tell-tale signs of Yang's run-in with the infamous Patriotic Knights Corp.

The door opened, and she wasn't surprised that it wasn't Yang. Ever since the return to Heinessen, she had become acutely aware that the person most in charge of the house wasn't the man who had taken Iserlohn Fortress, but the blonde-haired ward of that same man.

"Hello, lieutenant!" the teenager said brightly. He was already dressed in a blue, two-piece suit which fit him well.

"Hello, Julian." She smiled, "We've come to get you and the admiral. Is he ready?"

He gave a wry smile at that. "You don't quite know him yet if you're asking that question."

"So, not ready."

"Really not ready. Admiral Yang is still in the bathroom." The young man explained.

One thing that she had come to learn as well was that Yang, outside of his active battlefield duties, loved nothing but to procrastinate. The more official the duty, the more time he tended to waste. There was a rumour that he had barely made it to his own fleet's inauguration ceremony. At the time, she hadn't believed it. Now, of course, she wondered how she hadn't.

However, this time, she couldn't let Yang set his own pace. She had brigadier general Schenkopp waiting in the car, and was supposed to get her commanding officer as well. And she intended to do it. It should have grated her to be doing this, but for some reason, all she derived from the exercise was genuine amusement.

She came to the bathroom door, but didn't check if it was locked or not. Given her luck, it wouldn't be, and if it happened that her superior officer was in a _very _unready state… she wanted to spare them both the embarrassment. So she went about it the way she would have any other interaction with Yang in her capacity as adjutant.

"Admiral Yang?"

A somewhat grumpy voice came back from the other side of the closed bathroom. "Lieutenant Greenhill, is that you?"

"Yes, sir." She checked her watch. "Admiral, we have only an hour to get to the parade grounds."

Silence on the other side. She waited patiently. After all, she wasn't the one being feted, so her personal embarrassment if something came up would be minimal at best.

Finally, an answer came. "Lieutenant, this might surprise you, but I hate formal things like that." Yang finally said, as if he was imparting something profound. She shook her head in amusement, a grin breaking her composure.

In the weeks since she had started working for Yang directly, she'd come to lose some of her illusions about the young man from El Facil. This was a man who had flaws like everybody else. He drank a little too much. He also tended to complain about work on a rather regular basis. He could also be difficult when it came to occasions like these. He was far from the perfect soldier.

On the other hand, his drinking never became a problem. While he complained about work, he always did it nearly as meticulously as Greenhill did hers when he _finally_ went and did it. And although Yang seemed to abhor moments in the spotlight, he had been perfectly dignified and proper when the men of the Rosen Ritters had been honoured in a smaller ceremony.

So while she had found a man with flaws, she had also found one whose qualities easily surpassed them. While her admiration had changed to realistic respect, her liking for Yang hadn't diminished.

"Sir, respectfully, we've talked about this. You even gave me strict orders about this situation."

There was a soft grunt from the other side. "And those were?"

"'Lieutenant Greenhill, I'm probably going to be difficult, so I'm going to give you orders to nag me until I go to this thing. Just to be on the safe side, I can't belay those orders in any way.' I believe that this was the exact wording, sir.'"

Another, clearly unhappy grunt. "I can sure be an ass to myself sometimes."

Julian, who had come to the door since, rolled his eyes in impatience. "Admiral, you're starting to sound like a little kid now. Could you please hurry up?"

"Now you two are ganging up on me, are you? Okay, hold on." There was the sound of the toilet flushing. As this happened, general Schenkopp, who had decided to be on the vehicle that would come to get Yang, came in and walked to them. He seemed totally at ease. Then again, Frederica had yet to see him uneasy about anything.

_No, that's not right. I saw it once, the unease. When we used Thor's Hammer. _But then, everybody had been left with a bad aftertaste from the firing. Weapons like that simply shouldn't exist in her mind.

Yang came out then, dressed in his casual, green with beige pants uniform, shaved and clean. He spotted Schenkopp and he encompassed at all three for a moment with a bemused expression.

"Is this an intervention of some sort?" he asked, with a hint of mirth and clear, although exaggerated, exasperation. "Were you going to break down the door or something?"

"If it's because I'm here, I just got bored waiting in the car." Schenkopp noted. Unlike Yang, there was no hiding that he found the whole thing rather funny. "But breaking down the door might have been fun just to see your expression."

"We should get going." Frederica reminded them. Julian nodded, and they left without more fanfare.

Schenkopp took a place beside the driver, and Yang, Frederica and Julian took a place at the back. Quickly, the car drove on. They were getting a bit tight tome-wise, but she figured that they had safely avoided disaster. After a moment of staring out the window, the fleet commander turned to her.

"So they have a reception after this?"

"Yes, admiral. A the Grand Capricorn Hotel. Several of the other fleet commanders will attend, such as admirals Borodin, Bucock and Hogwood. There will also be Joint Forces Commander Sitolet and Space Fleet Commander Lobos."

He raised an eyebrow. "And admiral Greenhill too I hope?"

She smiled, inwardly glad that Yang had but emphasis on her father's presence. Just like she had come to see Yang as her saviour and hero, Dwight Greenhill saw him as a protégé. He had been truly happy when news of their triumphant return had come to him.

"My fath-, I mean admiral Greenhill…"

"Calling your father your father is fine, lieutenant."

"Yes, sir, thank you sir. As I was saying, my father is very busy with a major operation, but he's promised to come for a while to congratulate you again."

"That's great. I can't wait to see him again."

The drive continued for a good thirty minutes, down the main roads of Heinessenpolis. The large metropolis had always been about being a hub of finance and industry. Consequently, its buildings were modern but lacked personality. Even the added parks and trees didn't truly liven up the place. It was no wonder many more people preferred the more pleasant-looking suburbs to the admittedly drab place. Although the oldest city in the Alliance, it certainly was far from its prettiest.

But today, it was lively with colours. It seems that the Heinessenpolis had all gone down to line the main street through which the convoy would go. For the first time ever, the people could celebrate a victory in which there was no dead to mourn. It gave the place the air of a festival. Flags waved, entertainers flocked the streets, vendors sold food and candy to kids and adults alike.

It almost made Frederica forget the Imperial ships suddenly disappearing into nothingness. _Almost._

They took one of the lesser streets, one cleared by the military for the use of VIPs, and quickly saw admiral Alex Cazerne waiting for them with his family. That was where they dropped Julian. He'd go and watch the parade with them. Yang had refused that he get into the glare of tv crews and reporters.

"Remember to wave, admiral!" Julian admonished him before leaving.

"Or at least try not to look like you ate something bad." Cazerne quipped before turning to his wife and daughters. Yang muttered for a few moments after this. Frederica, however, could swear that he didn't look nearly as miffed as he sounded.

They came close to the Twin Peaks, home of the High Council, and the car came to rest close to one of its side doors. Two enlisted men guarded the door. As did at least forty reporters.

"So much for secrecy." Yang grunted.

"On with the circus!" Schenkopp said more jovially. Soldiers came to open the doors, and they stepped out. The moment he came into view, Yang was swarmed by men and women with mikes, even as cameras rolled and flashes seemed to come from everywhere.

"Admiral Yang, admiral Yang! How does it feel to have surpassed the likes of admirals Lin Pao and Bruce Ashbey?

"Will Iserlohn be used as a stepping-stone for raids into Imperial Territory?"

"What plans do you have for future military operations in the future?"

"Admiral Yang, there are rumours that say that you'll be the next Space Fleet Commander once admiral Lobos retires? What do you say to that?"

"Will the Thirteenth Fleet be assigned as Iserlohn's garrison?"

With the help of soldiers who had gotten out once they had arrived, they pushed through the throng. Through it all, Yang smiled almost sheepishly and kept silent. Schenkopp was asked a few questions as well, but the large, imposing field officer also kept silent. Nobody asked Frederica a question, which didn't surprise her in the least, and in fact left her feeling rather relieved to be out of the spotlight. It had been much like this ever since they had come back.

Yang immediately looked at her when the doors had closed behind them and they were being ushered to the place where the convoy was waiting. "I'll never get used to that part."

"It's all part of a democratic society." Schenkopp pointed out sardonically.

"Free speech, freedom of the press, sir." Frederica shrugged. Yang looked at them one after the other in mock anger.

"Is everyone going to gang up on me today?!" he said, then sighed, "You're right, of course. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy any of this if I don't want to. That, _too_, is part of living in a democracy." He pointed out. Nobody answered that.

"Speaking of speeches, sir…" she noted. He looked at her guardedly.

"What about them?" he enquired as if something dreadful was going to happen.

"Well, I should remind you that you will need to make a speech at the Academy, in Turneisen."

He groaned. "I should have simply surveyed the systems like the _official_ mission said, but _no_, I had to try taking that fortress." His tone, however, took out any bite his words might have. "Thank you for reminding me, lieutenant." That last part was definitely friendlier.

She nodded. "Happy to be of service, admiral."

They continued down to the lower levels, where the main highway, cordoned off by the military and the police for the festivities, passed underneath the governmental hub. There the convoy was ready, with several groups of officers and soldiers from the Thirteenth talking, along with several member of the Fleet Office, with Fleet Secretary Nardiello discussing with rear admirals Murai, Fischer and Nilssen. Her green eyes brightened when she saw Yang. She quickly went to shake his hand firmly.

"Glad you could make it, admiral." She said.

"As am I, madam Secretary." He replied. A blatant lie if there ever was one, but even Yang seemed to have limits to how frank he could be about his opinions.

Nardiello waved her hand, dismissing the lie. "No, you're not. Most of those who went on those parades weren't happy. But that's the price of fame, isn't it?"

"I can't say, ma'am."

"Ah, a politically-correct, neutral answer. You're learning admiral. You might have a politician within you!" she replied with a smile.

Yang said nothing to that. Only shrugged and scratched his head. Frederica wondered how much self-control keeping quiet on that had taken. Quickly, the leading politician left the officers in the hands of the organizers, who told them on which car they'd be and how things were supposed to go. They all listened to the instructions, until Yang spoke up.

"I'd like to make a last-minute change, if it _is_ possible."

They tried hard not to show it, but they didn't like the 'last-minute change' part. Frederica wondered how many feathers had just been ruffled. But they remained polite and amenable. This was, after all, Miracle Yang himself.

"I'd like officers Linz and Blumehart to be with us on the first vehicle with the rest of the commanders. They were crucial in taking Iserlohn, and they deserve the spotlight…"

Frederica nodded. That made perfect sense.

"…furthermore, lieutenant Greenhill will also come on that vehicle with me. She helped me with the planning, so it's only fair."

_That_ didn't. She found herself gaping for a moment as Yang's request – a very simple shuffling of three people who hadn't even gone on the platforms – was quickly approved with something resembling relief. They had probably thought he was going to ask for something more timetable-altering, and were eager to please him before he changed his mind. She approached her commanding officer, counter-arguments in mind.

"Sir…" She started.

"I'm not gonna budge on this one, lieutenant. Might as well accept it." He cut her off with a grin. "I _am _your commanding officer, you know."

Beside Yang, Schenkopp grinned a bit more teasingly. "Don't worry about it, lieutenant, it'll be fun. If you'll excuse me, I've got two subordinates to drag here." With that, the regimental commander was off.

She still wanted to protest the sudden move, touching thought it might have been on some level. But Yang was now deep in conversation with Murai and Patorichev, and neither Nilsen nor Fischer would be of any help. With an inner sigh, she accepted the command and hoped it would actually be less nerve-wracking than she feared the parade would be.

Schenkopp quickly came back with Blumehart and Linz – who both seemed to take the shift of vehicles in stride – and they got into the platform. She noted that many pennants had been installed around it, proudly showing the Alliance flag, as well as the one of the Defense Forces and the Thirteenth Fleet's. It was a colourful, patriotic display to impress the masses. Frederica felt out of place.

As the car went underway, Yang gave her one last comment.

"I'm just hoping the trip to the Academy won't be this dreadful."

"One can only hope, sir." _At least I won't be there, so he won't have me participate in the speech. He's capable of doing it, too, _she thought wryly. She grinned as the convoy sped and any further conversation was rendered impossible as they came into bright daylight, with an euphoric crowd and loud music.

Letting future concerns rest at the back of her mind, Frederica Greenhill started waving to the massed people along with the others.

* * *

"I hope this call isn't a waste of time. Things are hectic enough as they are."

"I assure you, you'll like this. To make it short: we've found Balder's little revenge instrument."

"If true, that _is_ good news. And how was that person found?"

"A simple miscalculation. She took old files from a library on planet Santuario. Normally, I suppose nobody should have been there. But an overzealous high school student was still present and sent an invoice which we intercepted."

"The files in question?"

"Varied, but filed on the same date. One of the files came a legal document of some importance written by one Tsurugi Miwako."

"I've heard that name before."

"She was a well-respected lawyer who rose to be a member of the Alliance Supreme Court. A prosperous life, no doubt. But what's important is that she was married to a man who nearly shut us down for good."

"Interesting. Admiral Oersted's wife. I suppose the code used to get in was one of Balder's.

"Yes. As I said, if not for that student's zeal…"

"We would still be chasing shadows. I'd like to thank him, but we can't indulge in such things. Unfortunately, he's become a loose end in this affair."

"I agree. We intend to take care of him after some time has passed, so as to attract as little attention as possible."

"However, this must not be the case for this latest annoyance. Remove and clear the House of this worry."

"Of course, Loki. It _will_ be done."

* * *

**June 10, Universal Calendar 796**

**Turneisen, Brightfield Hotel**

Yang could have thrown something at the screen in disgust. Sitting in the hotel room that the military had gracefully taken for him while he was in Turneisen – a trip with all expenses paid for, which he supposed was a blessing – he watched a man without shame call the Free Planets Alliance to arms against the Empire.

"We musn't forget the blood shed for our glorious nation! We can't let the heroes who died having died in vain! Now that we finally have the upper hand against the evil Galactic Empire, we must use it to put an end to this conflict on our terms!"

_Just a bunch of generic nonsense. When has that man shed any blood for the country? Does he even know what he's saying, what he's asking for? _Yang doubted it.

The man's name was Togliatti, a member of the Democratic Union Party. It was the political group that dominated Alliance politics presently, and which had taken a majority six years ago. The current High Council came from that very party. Yang had listened to their rhetoric, and had always found himself appalled at how pro-war the group was. He didn't mind if a group was right-winged as long as there was moderation and a certain openness of mind. He found very little of that anytime he listened to a D.U.P speech or read one in the newspaper.

It appeared that Togliatti's party were under the delusion – fabricated or genuine, it was impossible to tell – that the Free Planets Alliance now had an edge over their enemy, the Empire. That much he knew was plain nonsense. The Alliance's economy was barely holding together, and its military might had been decreasing these past four years.

As far as Yang was concerned, Iserlohn hadn't given the country an edge. It had simply levelled the playing field, as long as the Alliance kept to the defensive strategy that it had mostly taken for the past fifteen decades. If they played their cards right, they might force a better stalemate and peace talks.

But this man was using Iserlohn as a rallying cry for future attacks, all with his hands on the shoulders of a little girl whose parent had died in Astarte. While the man's eyes glowed with fervour for renewed war that only someone who'd never been in combat could summon, the little girl's eyes only spoke of the grief of losing a loved one.

She had looked at Yang with forlorn, somewhat resentful eyes. She didn't see a hero when she looked at him. She only saw a man who should have made sure her father returned alive, but who hadn't done so.

He couldn't blame her at all.

"Damn, I got sloppy. I should have known there'd be something like this."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, admiral." Julian, who was sitting on a chair nearby as he lay on his room's bed, noted. He, too, looked at the news report and the speech with some disgust.

"There's nobody else to blame, Julian. I didn't think. Just because I didn't want a full military escort…"

The fact remained that he had never wanted to be doing any of these things for the military. After Iserlohn, he had in fact given a letter of resignation. Fleet Admiral Sitolet, however, had told him that it wasn't an option, if only because the new Thirteenth Fleet would be broken up again without him to lead it. He had then agreed to stay, albeit reluctantly and not without protesting.

The military celebrations which had followed, especially the parade, conspired to heighten his disgust of the spotlight. And so, when offered to come to Turneisen with a military shuttle and a military escort, he had refused, opting to make this an outing with Julian, through civilian channels. He'd go and make the speech in front of the cadets, but nothing more.

In hindsight, he wasn't sure if he'd been right, given things might not quite have been so bad through military channels.

Upon his arrival at the airport, reporters had been there to pester him with the same questions he'd been hearing since he'd arrived from Iserlohn Fortress. That had been expected, and he would have handled that by staying silent.

But then Togliatti had arrived, asked for a handshake, and then had _literally_ pulled him into an embrace. One which probably made it look as if he was on the politician's side. And then there had been that little girl with the flowers, a child who really didn't want to be there and didn't want to thank 'Miracle' Yang at all.

It had been a long time since he had actually wanted to hit someone. He stayed purely because his job demanded it of him. Yet if he saw the man again, he decided that he would ignore him, no matter _what_ the fallout might be.

One thing was certain: he was never going to vote for the Democratic Union after something like this. If anything, he'd vote either for the People's Alliance Party, or for the emerging Peace Party. The former was a more moderate version of the Union, while the Peace Party was a new player, one that he had read was rallying a lot of support throughout the Alliance, and which seemed poised to win at the partial elections being held in the following days.

He wasn't sure if he thought that the Peace Party's goals were naïve, since a peace treaty with the Empire was far from becoming reality according to the polls. But as far as Yang knew, it remained the best way for the Alliance to survive. A peace treaty, even for a decade or two, would allow the nation to repair its economy and stop the drain of talent that the military establishment forced upon the civilian population.

He shut off the wall television. "One more second of this and I'll throw up."

Julian nodded. "That was a horrible way to do things."

"Well, that's politics for you." Yang mused, "Nothing we can do but drink it and live with the bad aftertaste. This reeks of Truhnit, trying to make me look like I'm on his party's side."

Julian was disbelieving. "The head of the Department of Defense would go that far?"

"I was a pretty average student and some of my subjects were always on the verge on failing. I'm hardly what you'd call someone to emulate over there. And still I'm invited to the Academy's Anniversary Celebration. As I said, drink it even if it tastes bad."

Julian sighed, then shrugged with a grin. There was nothing to be done. "Do you want me to make some tea, admiral?"

Yang couldn't quite make himself relax, but the comment helped to alleviate the dark clouds in his mind, if not dissipate them. "Right. And if there's brandy in it, it'll be even better."

Julian promised to see if there was any, and at that moment the door rang insistently. As Julian went to answer it, Yang rested himself on the chair his ward had occupied less than a minute before. He was closing his eyes when he heard a commotion. More clearly, he heard voices, including Julian's. Julian's tone was a mix of anger and fear, while the others were clearly hostile. Yang rose to see what was the matter.

Then a man with a decidedly angry impression and a markedly more fit physique than Yang's own entered the room. The moment he saw Yang, the man snarled something and swung his fist at him.

At the Academy, one of the subjects that Yang was systematically on the verge of failing was hand-to-hand combat. He had neither the stamina nor the will to hit hard enough to hurt others. When he had graduated, it was something he had almost gleefully let deteriorate.

Another unwise decision, he decided as a few remnants of that training reflexively allowed him to dodge. He managed to spare himself a hit from the front, but his legs got caught up in the chair, and he fell backward, hitting the back of his skull on the wall. For a moment, he truly saw stars in front of his eyes, and fell down. The first attacker immediately loomed over him as two cronies looked on from nearby with the same level of hostility.

_This is a bad day, _he thought to himself. His mind had a taste for understatement.

"The great _Miracle Yang_ my ass!" his first attacker growled. "You're nothing but a tool for the warmongers!"

_So that's what this is about. Figures. _Another part of Yang's mind also noted that the men attacking him weren't exactly pacifists themselves. And then the attacker hit him. Hard. Pain exploded on the side of his face. It wasn't anything unbearable, he remembered having been hit worse during that Academy training he hated, but it'd leave a mark for a while.

As the angry man lifted his fist to hit again, Julian's voice, equally angry, rang out.

"That's enough! Let him go!"

Yang, eyes blurry from the pain from both sides of his head, felt the men hesitate as they looked behind them. He then saw Julian holding Yang's personal firearm level at them, and his heart sank. That was one of the few things he never wanted to see: Julian pointing a lethal weapon at someone in anger.

This was completely unacceptable, what these men had forced the boy to do. Completely. _Unacceptable_.

"Stop this!" Came another voice. A female voice, which Yang knew well. He looked at the doorway to look at a pretty blonde-haired woman who had been the fiancée of his oldest friend, Jean Robert Lapp, dead at Astarte.

"Hey, Jessica." He told her, and even as Julian put the gun back where it had been, he leaned back and closed his eyes to deal with the pain.

* * *

"Ah, the one you found. What is his name?"

"Her name, actually. And it's of very little consequence."

"Oh?"

"She'll be dead by tomorrow."


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

**On the Tenth of June**

**June 10, Universal Calendar 796**

**Turneisen, Brightfield Hotel**

"Is everything okay? Does it hurt much?"

The way Jessica asked the question, it seemed like she was struggling to find the right words. As if anything she might say would render the situation they faced between the two of them less problematic.

Yang rubbed the place where he'd been hit. It had been a solid punch which had caused him to black out for a moment, and which had nearly made Julian shoot the man right then and there. But he had looked in the mirror, and aside from a very minor swelling and some redness, if he put ice on it and was careful, no one would be the wiser the next day at the Academy.

But the lack of physical damage didn't take back what had happened. There were no words to make up for an assault. Still, he tried. He took off the pack of ice from the back of his head – for some reason, that part had been hurt worse – and shook his head. "Not that much. It would've been worse if you hadn't come. Good timing."

They were in his room, barely an hour after the incident, if that. She stood at the window and he sat on the chair as daylight failed and the nightlife of Turneisen began. Julian had caught that it would be better for them to stay together and figure it out.

She sighed, and looked at him. "I took off after them as soon as I knew what they were going to do. I'm sorry they did that. And I'm grateful you didn't press charges."

Even as Yang regained consciousness from his blackout, an urgent knock had been heard from the door which the three ruffians had slammed after entering. It had been the hotel security enquiring if everything was alright. Then and there. Had Yang been so inclined, the three men could have been on their way to jail. And perhaps a military tribunal afterwards for assaulting a flag officer of the Fleet. But he and Julian had said nothing, merely apologizing for the noise, and Jessica had curtly sent the three fools away.

They had gone, still giving Yang looks of anger which promised pain if they ever crossed paths again. It was something he would make sure never did, but he didn't much care about the lack of gratitude itself. He hadn't done it for them. He had done it because Jessica was there. Because it was her and, that, to him she was…

…he wasn't sure anymore. That bothered him.

"It's okay. I can go with the presentation at the Academy tomorrow without looking monstrous, so nobody'll know anything came around." He said.

"You're still going over there?" She sounded truly shocked and miffed by that for some reason. He raised an eyebrow.

"It's not like it's my choice here," he reasoned, "I got my orders and I'm following them. This is all part of my job."

She still seemed upset, but nodded. "I get that." And then her eyes, which had dropped, fixed on him again. "But things like this can happen again. I hope you understand that."

It wasn't said in any threatening fashion, and he was certain that Jessica truly didn't mean it as a threat. She just wasn't the type of person for it, he knew. But the fact was that, phrased that way, it was at least a warning, if not a threat. He did understand it, from a certain point of view. He started to say as much

But even as he went to say so, his thoughts flashed to Julian pointing a gun at the men and nearly shooting one. That the young man he was increasingly found himself wanting to raised and protect properly had been forced into a situation no one that age should. To have innocence nearly stripped away from his ward, and then receive some warning when he had done none of the actions he should rightfully have taken… that felt a bit like a betrayal from Jessica, who should have known him better. So, he shut his mouth he just bit his lower lip in neutral silence.

"You might know that we've got our own representative running for this election." She explained, filling the silence which had fallen between them. "James Thorndike. Our popular base is growing, and our chances of winning were good. Fifty-three percent voting intentions." Her tone then became colder, almost resentful, and just hearing it hurt.

"But then you arrived. Whatever you meant by it, just shaking hands made an impression, and the latest poll swung against us. Everyone was in a panic." She finished.

He rose and walked closer to her. "I can understand people being angry about it. I got blindsided and careless." He admitted. _Although attacking me over poll results is rather crazy, too, _he added to himself. _Especially over _one _poll_.

"If you agree, then don't go to the Academy tomorrow!" she said with some heat.

"Jessica, it's not that I don't understand…" he stopped. He wanted to let it go at that. He had often let such things go at that. But then there was Julian. Julian, nearly firing. A bit more, just a little bit more, and the boy would have at least wounded a man in anger, perhaps _killed_ him. In self-defense, of course, but his ward would have been tainted by it. Unacceptable. He couldn't, _wouldn't _accept that.

"I understand. I just don't agree. You're trying to rationalize what they did." He said.

Once spoken , he would have done almost anything to take the words back. He regretted them, although he didn't disagree with them. She shot him a look of shock.

"I'm not!" she defended.

"You don't _think _you are, but you are. Telling me these things _can happen_? Jessica, these three guys attacked me in my room, over _poll numbers_!" His tone tried to remain gentle despite the words, but he was certain that his voice rose by the end. Jessica's eyes narrowed as if he'd slapped her. _Why, Jessica? Because I don't automatically give way? Is that how you see our relationship?_

"I… I admit they… look, they got stupid. They didn't think straight. But believe me, those are good people at heart!" she defended.

"I believe that. But I think you're into the work you're into so deep that you can't see it that well when those guys actually do something wrong. Your idealism gets in the way sometimes, it blinds you to…" he began.

"No!" she interrupted him, and he blinked in surprise. Her eyes now glared at him. A painful sight which constricted his heart. He shouldn't have spoken out, but what was said was said. "No! No, you don't get to_ lecture_ about this!"

He took half a step back. That, he hadn't quite expected. "I don't mean to preach. It's not what…"

"You never mean to preach, but you do it all the time. You cite dates, you cite history… anything to get your position forward." Jessica said, "But that's all you have: a position! And most of the time it means_: let it go at that because you can't change it _anyway."

Yang didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't exactly the way he worked things out in his mind, to be honest. But he felt that his friend was just starting. He tried to cut it off before it went too far. _I should have just shut up. Nothing good comes from direct confrontation. _

_Too late, too late, _a voice lamented inwardly.

"All I'm saying Jessica, that sometimes your ideals get in the way of seeing flaws in how your cause is coming about, if not the entire cause itself."

"And what I'm saying is that you tend to see things as if you don't have a stake in it!" she retorted fiercely.

His head started aching again, but this time, it had nothing to do with his wounds. He put his hands in front of him as if to ward off her anger.

"That's not quite the way I do things, Jessica…"

She pointed her finger at him. "Maybe not, but the result's the same. How many times did Jean Robert and I heard you go on about how badly off the military is? How… how your commanders are stuck on old concepts? You see the flaws, but you don't act on them at all! You talk to me about how I stick to my ideals to tightly. Well, its better than _you, _who doesn't take a stand! If you had the ambition or just the will to get your ideas through… if you were like that… maybe…! Maybe…!"

Tears came into her eyes, and Yang didn't see a way out. This was something he had never dealt with. No, that wasn't quite fair. He had never allowed a situation to get to that point. The whole thing was something he didn't know what to do with. He wondered what that said about him.

"Jessica…"

"You should have been in command in Astarte! You could have been! And if you'd been, Jean Robert would still be alive!" she raged, "Maybe my friends went too far, I think they did, but it's better than you, who just… who just…" she burst out, and her eyes widened at what she'd said, and she covered her own mouth in shock.

Yang reeled from the accusation, not so much because it was a novel idea but because it was something that had always been gnawing at his conscience. He had felt it when he had let himself be overruled by Paeta. At Tiamat. And at Astarte. He had known a better way to fight, but he had said nothing.

At the Fourth Battle of Tiamat in particular, the fleet of Reinhard von Lohengramm – then holding the name Reinhard von Müsel – had broken from the main Imperial Fleet and swung from its position to pass right in front of the Alliance forces. Had the Alliance opened fire there, Yang was certain, the passing fleet would have been easily crippled. That's what Yang would have done: attack them, cripple, them, and push them right into the Imperial main fleet in a rout, causing enough confusion to allow a strong upper hand to his allied forces. But Paeta had deemed it as some sort of trap and, like the other commanders, hesitated until the opportunity passed. Yang had tried to convince him then…

…_no, I didn't, _a voice from inside his head interjected. _I told him to attack, but I didn't explain my thinking. I just said it was going to be too late without saying what. I assumed he'd see it. And when he pulled rank on me, I let. It. Go. _He had defaulted to his normal reasoning in such infuriating moments: shrug it off. Ignore it. His reasoning had been simple: Paeta was his commander, and whatever he said went. Even if he had pushed more, he probably would have gotten in trouble and would have had a much harder time convincing the fleet commander later. It was the lesser of two evils, and it still made sense to him.

But there was a difference between it making sense and it being _acceptable_. And he had to admit that a part of himself had never lived it down. It had driven him to lead a dangerous mission to save the Alliance Fleet at Tiamat. He was also fairly certain it was the reason he had accepted command at Astarte. But that changed nothing to what he was. That was the way he had coped with life. So he did the only thing he could do, the only thing he could say.

"I'm sorry, Jessica. I'd trade places with Lapp if it'd bring him back." he sighed, aware that it wasn't enough, but unable to say more.

Jessica, although her eyes were red from tears, smiled. This time, there was no anger, no resentment. Just weary sadness. "I know, Yang. I know you mean that. I'm sorry too. It was cruel to blame you like that. It's… just… hard sometimes."

"And believe me, I'm not leaving those three off the hook. They're going to know exactly what I think of their little circus act. They'll be walking softly around me, I can tell you that." She shrugged, and vitality returned to try and replace the weariness. "I _am_ an idealist, after all."

They both chuckled at that, and the tension of the previous moments receded, not forgotten not quite yet forgiven, but it receded. His aches bothered him, but he ignored it. For a moment, he saw himself back at the Academy, laughing without a care with his oldest friend and the woman they had both loved.

Those had been the best days he had ever lived. No contest.

But reality returned, His friend was dead, his bones lost to the infinity of space and the madness of human warfare. And Jessica, the love he had for her remained. But he had closed the door on anything more, his desires denied in his fear of destroying the last link to his youth.

"I'll promise you one thing: _next time_ I'm caught in that kind of dilemma, I'll push _harder_." He shrugged, "How much harder that is, I can't tell. I'm still me."

"I'll believe it when I see it," she answered easily, then her mien became more serious. "Yang?"

"Yeah?"

"About idealism, there's something…" she shook her head. "No, forget it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Now, you can't just leave it at that. I'll be wondering about it the whole night!" But she made a negative motion again.

"After the election. After the election, we'll talk about that. That and… well, about that at least." She turned to leave. "And Yang? I'll hold you to that promise."

She started to leave then, and he couldn't leave it at that. His outburst had been brought by pain and stress, and it was unlike him. He took two steps towards her, stopped, fumbled with what he wanted to say.

"Jessica?" She turned at his voice, her face both saddened and serene. He wanted to say so many things then. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her he wouldn't let her down. That he would always be there for her. But nothing came, nothing but an ultimately banal, "I'm really sorry."

"I know. Me, too." She answered softly. And with that, she was gone. Moments after the door opened and closed behind, Julian appeared, inquisitively.

"Was it okay to leave it at that?" he asked. But Yang found that he had no answer, and he kept silent. The opportunity was lost today. He had messed up. And couldn't find a way to repair what had just been torn down.

* * *

**Heinessenpolis Suburbs, 1538 Whitelane**

It was at home that Frederica decided to broach the subject of her assignment to the Thirteenth Fleet with her father.

She had wanted to do it before, but things always got in the way. First, there had been the work in getting the Fleet ready. Then there was the operation to take Iserlohn, which had been over a month of space travel. And finally, all of the items that admiral Yang had on his plate after coming back to Heinessen needed to be arranged. Things had been animated to say the least.

And she knew that her father had just as much work. As Headquarters Chief of Staff, he had to direct a great deal of the inner structure of the Defense Forces management. She hadn't seen him often even when she had managed to be home.

But now they were both eating breakfast at their house, and for once neither of them seemed to have pressing work at the moment. Dwight had finished his eggs and toasts and was calmly drinking coffee, while reading the newspaper. Looking at the tableau, Frederica was reminded of the days when her mother was alive, and she had chided him for reading at the table, and grinned despite herself, remembering how her parents would playfully fight for the item at times. She poked her fork on her empty plate for a few moments, trying to word her query as best she could.

"What's on your mind, Frederica?" he asked, while finishing an article. Her fork stopped, hovering over the plate.

"Am I that obvious?" she asked, knowing that it likely was the case. Her father had always been a shrewd man who noticed things easily.

"You've been poking that plate for a bit now." He explained. "When you do something like that, it means you want to talk about something, but that it's a bit delicate. You've always been like this."

She put the fork on her empty plate and coughed. "I never noticed that."

Dwight looked amused as he put the newspaper aside on the table and looked at her. "Your mom noticed it first, actually. But then, she always saw those things. She told me that you could be an open book at times."

That sounded like her mom, alright. She, too, had been good at picking things up. Just not the same things, and not the same way. She took a breath. There was no point in avoiding it any further.

"It's about the Thirteenth Fleet." She started. "My assignment."

He nodded. He didn't look surprised in the least. "Figured that might be it. If it was me, I'd be bothered, too."

"It's not easy to say…" she began.

"Did I break the military's rules to get you there?" he cut her off.

She rubbed her hands together, noticed a stain on the tablecloth. _This'll need washing, _she thought, and quickly pushed the unrelated concern away. She made an acknowledging gesture.

"I graduated the Academy less than two years ago. Even if I ranked second, it's hard to see how I could have gotten on admiral Cazerne's short list for the position of adjutant to a fleet commander without outside help." She said. She was proud of her academic achievements, just as she knew it shouldn't have moved her up so fast.

"The short list always is created from officers who received recommendations." Dwight pointed out. He was right on that, but it didn't convince her.

"From their commanding officer, or their direct superior."

"Well, I _am _your commanding officer, after a fashion."

She felt a rush of irritation at the dissembling she was feeling from that. She was well aware that her father, at his high rank and posting, could pretty much be the commander of most of _Headquarters._ But she knew, and she knew that he knew, of the fact that he was way too high in the hierarchy and that others in her position wouldn't have even been a blip on his radar.

"Dad!" she admonished. He gave her an even look.

"Well, I did put in your name for recommendation to Alex Cazerne. Okay. I admit that. But that's all I did."

"Dad, you're one of the highest-ranking officers in the entire armed forces. Maybe rear admiral Cazerne felt _pressured_ to give you what you wanted. Didn't you think about that?"

"Not for a moment. You see…"

"You can't just go and pressure the Logistics Division for me, that's just completely…"

"Frederica." He said, and the _Admiral_ crept into his voice. Years of hearing that warning tone as well as her training stopped her. "You didn't let me finish. You think I pressured admiral Cazerne. But you don't _know_ admiral Cazerne. He's not that type of officer at all. If he thought you didn't fit, anything short of a direct order from admirals Lobos or Sitolet wouldn't have moved him."

Her father wasn't the type to lie, she knew that. But sometimes he did believe things because they fit what he thought they should fit. And although she had met Alex Cazerne since, she couldn't be entirely sure he hadn't helped her father because of his rank and stature. Doing that, after all, was a good method for faster promotions.

"I've got a feeling you're not sure. Let me tell you again: Alex Cazerne isn't the type to budge out of self-interest. If he picked you, he had a good reason."

She decided to let that angle go for now.

"But why me at all?"

"A perfect memory, a meticulous work ethics." Dwight answered. "And you know when to let someone have his way or not. Besides, that's moot. You're there now. Do you want a reassignment?"

"Of course not!" It had never even been a question in her mind. Although her initial acceptance had come from her memories of El Facil, she had learned enough of the man behind the myths to want to serve under Yang. Now, she wanted to serve the man who had flaws but so many fine qualities.

"Good. Because you shouldn't sit on your laurels." The admiral warned.

There was something in the way her father had said that which didn't bode well. There was dead seriousness, and just the slightest bit of worry. The latter was hidden so well that she guessed only herself and her departed mother would have discerned it.

She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. "I understand that the Thirteenth Fleet is on standby pending a decision by the higher-ups as to its future purpose."

"And what do you think that would be?"

She thought about it for a moment, choosing her words carefully. She felt like the time when she asked her father to review something with her for the Academy. He would always end up asking a question which demanded her to think things through, and then respond. He would then point out any irregularities in her thinking. She wondered what he was attempting to tell her now.

"Logically," she stated thoughtfully, "The Thirteenth Fleet will likely be merged with either the remnants of the Second Fleet, or with new units to bring it to the strength of a full fleet. It would then be used as a defense unit to protect our part of the Iserlohn Corridor. Perhaps we would reinforce the mouth of the Phezzan Corridor. With admiral Yang's popularity with the people, it would be unwise to put him to internal tasks."

He looked at the ceiling for a moment, swayed his head from side to side for a bit, and then refocused his gaze on her and nodded. "That's a pretty good analysis. Logically, this is the thing that should happen."

"There's a 'but', there, isn't it?" she queried.

"Nothing official. Only hunches." He reported, "But I've been around the military long enough to know something: the chances of there being peace overtures from our country to the enemy's are very slim."

"Even with Iserlohn Fortress in our possession?"

"_Especially_ because of that. That victory had greater tactical usefulness than the Battle of Dagon itself. It was a huge step forward. With everything that it means."

"I don't understand. If there's no peace talks, and no defence, that'd leave us with…" she stopped herself. He nodded. Her mind presented something. Something she didn't like, but which her knowledge of how the Alliance worked told her could happen.

"You see it." He pointed out.

"But, but that can't be right!" she stammered, "That'd make no sense! I read the news. A large proportion of the population is tired of the war. We've shifted things to our advantage, but that's only if we keep to defensive fighting!"

Dwight raised an eyebrow at that and crossed his arms. "Coming from an officer with less than two years of field time under her belt, most of it being spent at Headquarters, that's a bold statement."

She flushed, largely out of the knowledge that, compared to her father, she truthfully had far less of a grasp on the war. Dwight Greenhill had been in the military for thirty years, and had participated in a dozen major campaigns during that time. He also knew the political and social spectrum very well through the powerful offices he had come to hold more recently. But she also felt that her father was belittling her opinion because of his greater experience, which she found flawed, not to mention unfair. After all, objectively-speaking, admiral Yang had far less experience than admiral Paeta, and yet showed himself the better commander. Length of service wasn't everything.

He shook his head. "Don't make that face, Frederica. I never said I disagreed. It's just that I know how things work. The people are tired, but the government might not be. And if it isn't, the military'll have to follow the government's will. Anything else would be unfit for soldiers of democracy." The last sentence was uttered a bit ruefully.

She coughed. She didn't realize that he could read her that well. Sometimes she forgot that he had raised her, and knew her own quirks quite well. She wished it worked just as well the other way around, only it didn't. "So if we…" she found it hard to even say it, as if uttering the word would make the possibility more real, "…attack, admiral Yang's fleet will be one of the dispatched units?" she asked.

"I'll make sure it is. If the government goes with a foolish plan, we'll need people to pick up the pieces. Now, there are excellent commanders out there already. Admiral Appleton, admiral Ulanf, and it goes without saying that the sheer experience and level-headedness of admiral Bucock of the Fifth Fleet would be a great asset. But Yang has more of a talent than he gives himself credit for. He's a genius who doesn't see himself as one. So I want him well-surrounded, and you can help there." He took his newspaper again. "That's all there is to it."

With this, her father returned to his reading.

That discussion hadn't gone in the direction she had thought it would. Never had she imagined that the government might be so willing to push the war forward after the losses in recent years. The taking of Iserlohn had transformed a losing war into a stalemate again, and to maintain it meant to use the reprieve to rebuild Alliance infrastructure.

She didn't like what the other path could lead to. But she had a feeling that, in his own way, Yang would fight it as much as he could. Realizing this, she decided that she didn't really care that her father had used his name to give her a push or not. The bridge of the _Hyperion_ would likely be the center of something. And whatever it was, Frederica wanted to be a part of it.

* * *

**Turneisen, Southern Horns Steak House**

Yang's emotions relating to the Free Planets Alliance Officer Academy were decidedly mixed.

One of the two strongest emotions was frustration. The Academy hadn't delivered the type of education he wanted – forcing him to study advanced tactics when the history classes were cancelled due to budgetary concerns. And it had thrown him into what he considered a callous organization bloated with graft and self-entitlement.

The other strong emotion, however happened to be gratitude. For all of its ties to a military lifestyle that he had never liked and a militaristic stance that he loathed, it had been the first place where he had met real friends like Jean Robert Lapp. Alex Cazerne, and Dusty Attenborough. It had provided a young man with very little money to his name with a free education and a job, even though that education hadn't been quite what he had originally signed up for by the end, and that the job itself wasn't what he had ever wanted to do in his youth.

It was where he had met Jessica, which went a long way to making him forgive the place for its slights and ills.

Still, despite that, he really didn't see the point in asking him to talk to the cadets. Even though he knew that it was nothing but a publicity stunt, he still felt like he was cheating someone. The students, at least, were cheated in his opinion. What was the point in telling them about his academic record, which were average and completely unimpressive? He was by no means a paragon of academic virtue. His success, as far as he was concerned, was due almost purely to luck.

So after the swelling on his face had gone down, he'd decided that the best way to feel better about the illogical task he was set to do was to go eat at a restaurant that brought back good memories of his days in Turneisen. It also helped in forgetting that there were guys who truly wanted to mess him up.

The place, Southern Horns, was a steakhouse of some repute which carried affordable prices and had been a favoured haunt for Yang, Lapp, and a few close Academy classmates. Here, they had eaten better food than at the cafeteria, and had been able to exchanges stories and impressions about the place they learned at, up to and including the teaching staff.

He had looked up the place, and saw that it was still there, and in fact had slightly expanded over the years. And the prices hadn't gone up much since he'd last been there shortly before graduating.

Yang had taken a strip steak with vegetables, along with red wine, while Julian had ordered salmon steak with citrus, herbs, and side of vegetables as well, along with some iced tea. Yang personally didn't see the point in going to a steakhouse and not ordering red meat, but Julian seemed to truly be enjoying himself.

'This is a nice place, sir,' he said, 'Being an admiral really has its perks!'

'Well, it's not so much about rank as it is about knowing the nice places around Turneisen. I came here often enough, and the prices are still good.'

'You came here with commander Lapp?' Julian asked. Although Lapp had been promoted to captain for dying in the line of duty, Julian and Yang himself still referred to him by the last rank he had earned while living. It made things a bit easier somehow.

He nodded, smiling as old memories replayed themselves. The moments here had been some of the best ones he'd lived through. 'Lapp, some friends from the Department of History before it was dissolved. Attenborough joined by the very end.'

Julian was about to comment, when a waiter came to their table. 'Vice admiral Yang?' the middle-aged man asked. When Yang nodded in agreement and announced that he was, he held up a pen and notebook on the table. 'These two customers would like to have your autograph.'

As he said so, the waiter gestured to two women in their mid-twenties who were at the bar. Quite pretty, though not rating as high as Jessica – and, problematically enough given her position as his subordinate, as Frederica – in Yang's mind, they were beaming at him rather engagingly.

Part of him was certainly flattered with the sort of attention he'd never had as a young man, but the knowledge of what the source of the adulation was struck him as odd and slightly worrisome. There were better men to like in the Alliance. Like men who had never had to kill other men.

'I don't mean to be rude,' he said after a moment's thought, 'But this dinner is private.'

The waiter looked contrite at that. 'Yes, sir, I know. But it would likely mean so much to them…'

He had never been very good at those things. Deciding that signing would be less time-consuming than an actual argument, he took the notebook and signed it. What Jessica had told him about him being too pliable might have had more truth to it than he cared to admit. He certainly wouldn't mention this to her, since it would only invite mockery. And after their recent argument, he didn't really want to get into it.

The waiter smiled, and thanked him, and Yang believed that it was the end of it. A moment later, he found the notion not only mistaken, but rather naïve.

The waiter turned around and snapped his fingers. Then and there, the lights dimmed. He didn't notice the change at first.

Then the people in the restaurant – most of them at least – began singing 'Liberty Bell'. Considered to be the Free Planets Alliance national anthem, it wasn't actually the original one. Liberty Bell had been written some twelve decades by singer Matt Parish. He had meant to encourage the frightened citizens of the Alliance, when the war had almost ended in complete defeat after the First Battle of Tiamat. Once intended to galvanize the troops, it had become a hit and a part of their national identity.

Yang had never liked it much. Not because of the song itself, but that it had lost its meaning as an element of democratic reassurance. But it had never truly bothered him before. Now, he realized he may start loathing it before too long.

He wondered what he should do. A large part of him wanted to simply leave. Another part of him, deeper, more private, was angry that the people wouldn't let him rest. Public image or not, he had wanted to eat in a restaurant like he had many times before, indulging in memories of simpler days.

'_Once someone becomes part of the national tapestry, he or she loses the right to true privacy. It is, perhaps, the most damning and certainly the most annoying price to fame._' Yang remembered reading that at the Academy, from an essay that Fleet Admiral Lin Pao had written later in his life. He hadn't fully understood that sentence before the current evening.

He sighed. He didn't agree with the show he was getting, but these people likely meant well. So when the song stopped, he rose with his glass of wine, and raised it.

"Here's to you and yours." He said simply, and received a cheer for that. He waited until the tumult died down before sitting down again. Men and women clapped, there were whistles. Here and there were cries of 'Miracle Yang' and 'Long live the Alliance' before people returned to their discussions, drinks and food. Julian, who had watched all that, nodded.

"That was nice of you, admiral. Especially since I know this bothered you." He noted, more sagely than most boys his age should behave in Yang's mind.

"It was either that or berate them," he said with a smile, scratching his head a bit sheepishly, "But I'm not good at berating, and besides, I wouldn't want to ruin their evening." All the same, he realized that he may not ever be able to return to this old haunt of his for a quiet time, and that bothered him.

The dinner continued for a few minutes, but he found far less pleasure in it. The magic was gone from this place. Eventually, they paid the check and left. It was probably the last time he would go there.

The city of Turneisen was truly in the grip of an epic electoral battle, the two found as they walked the streets. Images of Togliatti and Thorndike were everywhere, with bright, if not forceful, political and social slogans here and there. This wasn't going to be his concern, of course, since he didn't live in the city. But he was willing to bet that Thorndike was decent man. Jessica was overzealous, but anything but stupid. So he silently bade the man good luck and called a cab to go to the hotel. The events of the day had truly tired him.

Back at the hotel suite, he bade Julian good night and retired to his room to sleep. Quickly dressing for the night, he ultimately decided to read in his chair until he felt ready for sleep. He had brought an interesting detective novel he had just begun and opined that it would do just fine.

As usual, the book took over his train of thought as he read, and soon he found himself speeding through the streets of a fictional city, hoping like the hero to catch a group of terrorists before they set off powerful bombs. So engrossed did he get that, when he heard the sound of an explosion, he almost thought he had imagined it.

Except that he hadn't. Although a Fleet officer, Yang was no stranger to what real explosions sounded like – he had once been uncomfortably near to one of these – and both his mind and training couldn't mistake it. Frowning, he put his book aside and went to the window, where he saw an odd glow which fit with the sound he had heard and its immediate effects.

Amidst the skyscrapers and smaller buildings of Turneisen, there was the glow of fire and much smoke. Something had gone down, dramatically so. He puzzled over what could have caused it for a few minutes, and wasn't quite coming up with useful hypothesis, when Julian knocked on his door.

"Admiral, admiral can I come in?" The young man said from the other side. His tone was rather breathless, which caused a shiver to run down his spine.

"Yeah, come in. I'm awake." He said, and his ward came in at once, also dressed for sleep but clearly not having slept yet. His eyes were wide. He seemed to be struggling with something. Yang's frown deepened. "What's wrong? Is it about the explosion? Do you know what happened?"

Julian nodded, found the remote to the room's televideo set, and opened it, quickly flipping through channels. Yang came to stand beside him as late-night shows and advertisements were skimmed through.

"Julian?" he pressed. He didn't like the kid's look. He wasn't one to be agitated to that extent. At first silent, Julian then nodded as he came to a news channel. A reporter was speaking from what clearly seemed to be a helicopter of some sort.

"…already can see the fire department at work to contain the blaze. No sign of life from inside yet."

The anchorwoman's voice came on as images of a burning building with several vehicules around it could be seen. People in firefighting uniforms were attacking the flames with water, while police vehicules were establishing a perimeter to ward off the curious.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, the Peace Party Headquarters is now completely engulfed in flames. It is unknown how many people were inside, but so far no one has given signs of life. Brian, what else can you tell from up there?"

"All I can say right now is that it's a mess, Nancy. We'll swing by and try to find…"

Yang wasn't listening anymore. Peace Party HQ. Thorndike.

_Jessica_.

With that thought, he quickly went to dress, refusing to entertain the worse while what was rational in him unfortunately did exactly that.

* * *

**Heinessenpolis Suburns, 180 Three Hills Street**

This was the last time that Cazerne would ever try to fix things to a wall in a bathroom. He promised it to himself, even though he knew that he was pretty bad at following promises, especially those he made internally.

Still, on four tries, he had pierced plumbing twice, once a minor conduit, the other time the water main. His luck hadn't been good. So the next few minutes had been all about frantically stopping the water, sponging off the water so that there wouldn't be water damage, and then calling the plumber. Consequently, he was now down by about three hundred dinars.

He had also rediscovered every single curse he had ever uttered since he had hit puberty, and that was quite a long list. Only the presence of his daughters – who had a field day with the unusual situation – had prevented him from launching into a vicious diatribe which would have seared the paint clean off the walls.

Hortense had been well aware that he was extremely angry at himself, and had consoled him with the usual, well-meaning platitudes that he couldn't have x-ray vision, or that it was just plain bad luck. That it had happened _twice_, as far as he was concerned, was incompetence more than bad luck. He was _never_ doing this again.

Fortunately, everything was now fixed, and it happened that he had taken two days off-work. This having been the first day, he now relaxed by watching some television.

His wife now came back from having put the girls to sleep, grinning wanly at his still-discomfited face. She put her hands on her hips and surveyed him with an obviously fake stern look.

"Oh, come on Alex," she said, "Try to compare that to forgetting a shipment for the frontlines."

He was not to be amused by the analogy. "At least if that happened, there'd be redundancies, backup plans. And it's usually not something as dumb as _piercing a hole into the water main_." He grumbled.

Her eyes twinkled. "No, last time it was because someone forgot to sign at the right place, and shipments were two days late."

He paused, considered, then shook his head stubbornly. "Still not as bad as what I did, no ma'am." He groused. He was well aware that he was being childish at the moment, and knew that Hortense was bound to see it, and probably had already. He turned his attention to the news report, which came live from Turneisen. Something about a fire and possible bombing. This wasn't new. His fight against the plumbing had disconnected him from the world at large for the day.

"…_details are yet unclear as to what could have been the cause of the deflagration. The strength of the explosion, as well as the speed at which the fire spread, leads some experts to immediately discredit an accident. Chief Klein of the Turneisen Fire Department confirmed that the damages were far too explosive for it to have been a simple fire, and rejected the explosion of a gas main."_

"_This tragedy happens scant days before a special election which many thought would be a battle between the Democratic Union and the Peace Party. James Thorndike, a highly popular member of the Peace Party, had been stated by many as the probable winner of these elections, which some say might be the start of a 'Peace Wave' in the main elections in six months. With Thorndike and several of his subordinates confirmed as dead in the current incident, many questions are being asked as to what the party leadership will…_"

Cazerne's slightly irate attention on the disaster – which did nothing for his mood – was interrupted when Hortense plopped next to him and sidled close he looked at her to see that she had quite a coy expression on her face.

"How about I help you forget the bucks you lost today?" she said, her voice full of not-so-hidden meanings.

He visually took her in for a moment, and once again was reminded that she seemed more beautiful at thirty-three years old than she was when he married her. He grinned and hugged her, smirking happily.

"Another risky operation if the kids wake up." He murmured. She wasn't bothered in the least.

"We've always managed before. Tonight's not different."

They kissed, and he also was reminded that his passion and desire for her hadn't diminished much, if at all, over the years. As far as he was concerned, those unhappy in love were either unlucky or just idiotic suckers.

The kisses continued for a while, and the couch might well have become part of a 'risky operation' before his ears caught a sort of brouhaha from the report on the television, and the words filtered into his mind.

"_Admiral Yang, admiral Yang!"_

"_Admiral, do you believe that this act was caused through criminal means?"_

There was an unmistakable voice then,

"_It's very likely, in my opinion."_

Cazerne broke the embrace in shock, looking at the screen. Yang was indeed there, in his green uniform, missing only his beret, and surrounded by reporters. He seemed ill at ease, on edge. No. More than on edge, he seemed to be in shock.

"But that's…" Hortense said, falling into silence. He nodded. She saw it too. Yang was clearly dealing with something.

"_Admiral Yang, is it true that you were close with Jessica Edwards, one of tonight's confirmed victims?"_

Cazerne's wife gasped out loud at that, a horrified movement of wind. He gaped as his mind reeled from the newfound knowledge. Jessica, _dead_? He had come to know the opinionated woman over the years as she was always around Yang and Lapp all the time. He felt cold in the pit of his stomach as he understood why Yang was there now, and why he looked both lost and… angry. Yes, angry. Angrier than he'd ever seen the younger man before.

On the screen young commander of the Thirteenth Fleet rubbed his brow, but aside from that, only those who knew him well could tell that he was feeling a deep sense of grief.

"_Yes."_ Was all he answered.

"_Admiral Yang," _said another reporter, _"There is a theory that this incident could have been caused by pro-war elements to eliminate political enemies. Do you subscribe to that theory?"_

"Yang, Yang, tell me you didn't answer that," Cazerne muttered, knowing that military PR officers had likely been speeding to the scene then, "You know it's going to be seen as a political statement. You don't need the hassle"

But Yang had always spoken his mind, often going against official military positions. He had always given such statements almost meekly, certainly reluctantly, and there were always officers to usher him away before he said too much.

At that scene, Yang was shocked and angered, and nobody was around to stop him. Cazerne wasn't really surprised about what came next, couldn't even blame the man given the circumstances.

"_Well… yes, well…_ _given what I've seen, it wouldn't surprise me that pro-war elements would do something like this. And if they did, they're a plague on our democracy… no, on our basic sense of human decency."_

Yang seemed to realize where he was as he said this, and his eyes lost their glazed look. His self-control, which had seen him through many tragic losses, was reasserting itself. The young man shook his head.

"_I… I've got nothing more to say." _With this, he left, ignoring the reporters, until policemen actually went and stopped the throng. Not that it mattered. Things had already be said. Cazerne sighed.

"Poor Yang. That's… just… Lapp, and now Edwards." Hortense said sadly.

Cazerne could only nod back. All he could do was stare at the screen and at what had just happened to his younger friend.


End file.
